The Arrival
by Uroboros75
Summary: Witness the arrival of the Beacon through the eyes of Fringe's most enigmatic character, among other things... Part 1 of the Pulling the Strings series.
1. Prologue: Midway Point

_A/N: Welcome, readers, to the first installment of the Pulling the Strings series! _

_Before you jump in, you might want to visit my profile for a more detailed description of what the series entails; the format of this series is somewhat peculiar, and so it might be best to know what you're getting into.  
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_Also, whether you are new to the world of PTS, or are simply here to re-read, then you are in luck! This is a newly-revised, definitive edition of The Arrival (and the sequel, The Deceived, will also be receiving this treatment). I've corrected typos and errors, improved flow, embellished or trimmed passages as needed, and resolved some lingering plot holes/inconsistencies. The Deceived has already been posted, and pretty soon, I will have completed PTS III, so be sure to check those out if you enjoy The Arrival.  
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_And don't hesitate to leave some reviews and comments. Feedback is always welcome!  
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_With that, I'll leave you to it. Enjoy! :)  
_

* * *

Prologue: Midway Point

All was silent on Benson Street save for the rhythmic squealing of the rickety shopping cart as Old Roger steered it along, his head buried in his worn and shoddy coat. The sky had been grey all day, and the cold wind was making his aging joints ache. But in spite of having to deal with the dreadful weather, he deemed it to have been a successful day's work; he had happened upon many interesting items while rummaging around in the neighboring dumps and alleyways, many of which now filled his cart.

An overpass loomed up ahead as Old Roger advanced at a pondering pace. Fellow vagabonds saluted him as he passed by, and he returned the gestures. He was a recognizable face in Manhattan, especially among the homeless, as he had a knack for finding invaluable items for the harshness of life on the streets. On his well-worn circuits, he would barter with regular and new customers alike, determining items of equal value that may be swapped. There were even times, rare though they were, that some would purchase some trinket or other from his cart that caught their eye, and he was always happy to oblige. He was able to eke out a meager existence in this way, and it suited him just fine.

He turned his cart as the overpass came and descended the small, steep hill, struggling to keep control of his cart and his belongings as the load tried to pull him downwards. Once at the bottom, he pushed his cart beside a dingy mattress and settled down on it to rest his weary legs, his back against a titanic column of concrete. The underside of the pass was his most recent dwelling place, one that he thought to be quite cozy, for it shielded him from the rain and the wind, and people seldom came down there to bother him.

Once he retrieved his strength, he got a fire going in the nearby rusted barrel and began to sort through his hoard of objects and trinkets. A pair of mismatched shoes, a half-empty bottle of hair conditioner, a discarded razor, a disposable camera with half the shots used up, several types of plastic containers; for one who could not afford to be choosy, every piece was priceless. After he divided the lot into things he would trade and things he would keep, he rewarded himself for a decent day's work by breaking out a bottle of whiskey, and began to drink his all of his worries away, staring out into the waters of East River.

Old Roger had been living on the streets of New York City for many years, now. He was getting old now, his age showing in the grey hairs of his unkempt beard and long matted hair that seemed to grow from the edges of his bean hat, and in the windblown, leathery skin and crinkled eyes. As the night went on and the liquor gradually took its soothing effects, drowning his loneliness and his past regrets in life, of a family he had left behind.

He had a pleasant buzz going after the midway point of his bottle, and as he stared out into the distance, sitting on the ground with arms propped against the mattress, he had the vague sensation that something was moving in the air. He paid little attention at first, but soon the rippling of the air caught his drunken attention. A sudden gust of wind extinguished his fire. The buzzing noise swelled; his body rang with a nauseating vibration. Then a high pitched ring filled his ears, a painful sound that drowned out everything else, and as he sat still, paralyzed with fear, he began to see faint objects taking form. Pebbles on the ground danced beneath the flittering shadows, now vague humanoid silhouettes that struggled to keep their shapes.

Then to Old Roger's astonishment, five men dropped from thin air, crashing down on the earth with a thud as though they had been suddenly _snapped_ into existence. The old man stumbled to his feet in alarm. The unannounced visitors, clad in beige longcoats and black caps, writhed on the ground, gasping heavily, as if the very air was poisonous; one of them proceeded to vomit. Roger's eyes were fixed on one in particular, watching him fumble in his coat and take out a syringe, which he jabbed into his neck. The men laid on the ground, panting, though visibly relieved, recuperating from whatever stress had been assailing them. For a moment, Old Roger thought perhaps he should ask them whether they were alright, but decided to hold his tongue instead.

Paying no mind to the vagabond, three of the men rose to their feet, albeit with the groans of irritation and general grogginess usually associated with a bad hangover. They were quick to notice that two of their comrades had yet to rise, however, and gathered around the stilled bodies.

"They didn't make it," said one, kneeling to check their pulses.

Another sighed before breaking off, venturing to the column closest to Roger's, where he undid a pile of large rocks that the vagabond did not recall seeing there. The man uncovered a cellphone from the cairn, and proceeded to make a call, outside of Old Roger's intelligible earshot. The call terminated, he address his surviving associates.

"They'll pick us up here and bring us to the outpost," announced the cellphone man. "Take their stuff and leave them here."

As the others knelt to retrieve the belongings of the dead, the cellphone man at last turned his attention to the homeless man who had been standing close by the entire time. The stranger walked forward, eyes menacing, and he reached in his longcoat, revealing a pistol unlike any Old Roger had ever seen. It was sleek in appearance, and had a peculiar, almost otherworldly design. The man stopped and aimed it directly in Old Roger's direction. The wide-eyed vagabond remained rigid, wavering a little from his inebriation while holding up his arms in submission.

The man stood motionless, weapon at the ready, when his blonde-haired associate moved forward and put his hand on the aggressor's shoulder.

"He ain't worth the trouble, Mosley," he said. "Besides, who's gonna believe some crazy-ass hobo anyway?"

John Mosley stood for another moment, gazing razor-sharp, before finally conceding, placing his pistol back in his coat. He left, and the others followed suit; they disappeared from sight as they passed beyond the hill, never to be seen again.

As for Old Roger, he collapsed onto his mattress, staring at the bodies for a long time. He wondered what Higgs would think of this when he told him. He had certainly seen strange things living on the streets, and five men appearing out of nowhere ranked among the strangest.

Old Roger slept uneasily that night. And when he awoke that morning to see a stray dog sniffing at the bodies, he quickly packed his things and left the overpass, vowing to steer clear of it for the rest of his days.

* * *

PULLING THE STRINGS

Part I: The Arrival

By Uroboros75


	2. Chapter 1: Set In Motion

Chapter 1: Set In Motion

A dying summer's breeze shook the trees lining the promenade to and fro, its strident wail haunting the seemingly lifeless grounds of Franklin Park. Few were venturing the walkways on that chill September day, and those who did clung to their coats with squinting eyes as the wind slowly robbed their extremities of sensation. Apart from the occasional passerby, he was left to himself on a bench overlooking the still, sparkling surface of the pond.

Just the way he liked it.

The man took another sip of his hot beverage, savoring it as it rolled over his tongue and slid down his throat. This was his favorite area of the park, one that he often visited when his schedule allowed it. On that wooden bench, he reflected in solitude while he observed those around him in silence. There was no one to watch that day, however, so he contented himself to feed some small ducklings that were gathered on the path before him, scattering pieces of bread he brought for this very occasion.

"Aren't you cold in that fancy suit, mister?"

The shrill voice awoke him from his stupor. There stood a young girl in a red coat, looking at the man with an inquisitive expression.

"I am fine," he replied, his voice monotone. "The cold does not bother me."

As he continued to nourish the birds, the girl gazed as they quarrelled amongst each other, greedily gobbling up what they could. The man noticed that she kept eyeing him and his bread, holding her arms behind her back and rocking a little on her feet. He looked at her, and she averted her eyes, realizing her lack of discretion.

"What is your name, little girl?" he asked.

"...Cassidy," she responded timidly.

"Would you like to feed the ducks, Cassidy?"

Her eyes lit up, and a small, shy smile snuck its way onto her face. He handed her a loaf which she accepted with great delight, and she began to break it apart, letting the morsels fall to her feet and laughing as the ducklings danced around her yellow boots. Her face beamed with joy, and the man watched, curious. He seldom interacted with children, let alone those playing and enjoying themselves.

He wondered what it might be like to be a child.

"Hey mister," she asked. "What's yourname?"

Before he could speak, a woman in a blue parka came to her side, visibly relieved to have found her.

"Cassidy! How many times have I told you not to go running off like that!" she scolded.

Disappointment washed over Cassidy's round little face; her mother's sudden appearance had frightened her fuzzy companions back into the pond. As the mother berated Cassidy for her disobedience, the suited man turned his attention to the shimmering body of water. The ducklings carved themselves a path through the surface, leaving a trail of ripples in their path. As time passed, they grew wider, disturbing the water's surface in their wake; the pond never quite seemed to settle back to its original calm state.

"I'm terribly sorry", she said, "I hope she didn't bother you."

The wariness in her eyes betrayed her polite, apologetic demeanor.

"It is fine," he assured.

Taking her daughter's hand, they continued down the stone path. He could hear them negotiate about the prospect of an ice cream cone as they slowly disappeared from sight. Observing their interactions, he eventually determined Cassidy's mother to be a suitable one.

He supposed it was unfortunate, then, that she was going to die in the near future.

He took another sip of his concoction, relieved to be left to his thoughts once more. He wished he could come here more often, but his job was a demanding one, and he rarely had the time for relaxation. It was why he decided to enjoy this moment of tranquility for as long as he could, knowing that it wouldn't be long before he would have to leave.

No sooner could he complete this train of thought when something suddenly vibrated in his coat pocket. He took out the square object and flipped it open, interpreting the message of strange symbols inside.

_**"Activate Correspondence Protocol**_  
_**Location Sector Alpha-2 [04.35415/-07.05433/122.36]**_  
_**Time at 10:59:59 AM Local**_  
_**[Priority code 1618]"**_

He froze.

That priority code was only issued in times of great importance. His mind raced with possible scenarios, fuelled by rising urgency. He mastered the flash of concern as quickly as it swept over him; there was no time to waste. Swiftly, he gathered the bread and his thermos into the briefcase at his side before taking off at a brisk pace alongside the pond. Soon enough, he breached the threshold of the park's entrance gate, abandoning the serene ambiance of the park to enter a less forgiving Boston.

The endless flow of traffic matched the hurried rhythm of people roaming the sidewalks. His senses were saturated with the sound of sirens, the smell of smoke, the contrast of colors, arousing his dulled senses. Yet as much as he might have preferred to stay and take in the sights, he knew that his mission was far more important. With this in mind, he pressed on through the thick brush of Boston's concrete jungle.

The building which he sought now towered before him. According to the coordinates on his phone, he was to reach the pinnacle of the high-rise. He pivoted his head, scanning his surroundings; it would do no good to with all these people observing him. The suited man, briefcase in tow, made for a nearby alleyway, outside of all lines of sight. Here, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was standing at the summit of the Keystone Building, four hundred feet above the streets below.

The city of Boston extended beyond sight in all directions. And even on this tall edifice, larger structures still loomed in the distance, mighty pillars that held the sky in place. He paced around as he assessed the situation. It was an odd place for meeting a Courier, and rare were exchanges of the highest priority.

For the second time, the suited man wondered what was in store for him.

Only the distilled sounds of the traffic below quelled the silence. He verified his pocket watch; it was nearing the eleventh hour. Alone he stood, waiting. As the time approached, he checked his watch once more, watching the hands count down the inevitable.

...3...2...1...

For a moment, nothing happened. Everything appeared to be in place. And yet, he sensed that something had changed. Somewhere nearby, the atmosphere was slightly different than it was a moment ago. A low, nearly imperceptible vibration rang through his body.

Something flickered in the corner of his eye. Seeing this, the man summoned a metallic case from his coat pocket. With the press of his fingers, they popped open, revealing a pair of compact binoculars, which he then peered through. In the distance, he saw something he most certainly did not expect to see.

It was a pigeon.

Flying in his direction was a bird no different than any other bird in Boston, save in one respect; according to the various filters on his specs, the pigeon was ever so slightly out of place with its surroundings. But that was clear to see with the naked eye. The pigeon had a luminous glimmer to it, setting it apart from all the other birds occupying the skies. It was a very special pigeon indeed, and the suited man knew precisely why.

It had been sent from another place. Somewhere beyond this physical reality.

He noticed, zooming in further, that something was attached to its neck. It appeared to be a collar upon which was fastened a horizontal cylinder, its grey surface glistening in the pallid sunlight. The avian messenger inched closer with every beat of its wings, and the ease with which it flew suggested its load was light. In mere moments, the bird was in clear sight. He snapped his specs shut and stretched out his arm; the bird landed on it with grace, wrapping its talons around the polyester sleeve.

There was also something attached to its neck. The object's grey surface glistened in the pallid sunlight. The avian messenger inched closer with every beat of its wings. In mere moments, it was in sight. He snapped his specs shut, and stretched out his arm; the bird landed on it with grace, wrapping its talons around his sleeve.

The suited man recognized the harmonic vibration modules implanted in the collar that had allowed the pigeon to cross over; the cylinder was held by a clamp on the front. He undid the collar with his free hand, and as soon as he did, the bird took flight and soared away, becoming but one of the countless indigenous pigeons to daub the Boston skyline.

He undid the clamp, claiming the cylinder. It was narrow, widening only slightly near the center, and was surprisingly light. Since a metal object could not be so light without it being hollow, he tapped the smooth surface, the slight reverberation confirming his theory; shaking it, he also suspected something to be inside. And yet, as he slid his fingers across its surface, he realized that there was no way of opening it, the surface completely uniform.

Across the center, however, he found a message, engraved in the same symbol set he had seen on his communication device, a code that only he and his associates could decipher.

_Whether there is a way or not rests with you. _

These were familiar words to the suited man; it was a phrase the Overseer would often say when he and his associates were undergoing their training at the Academy. He deduced that the very same man sent the cylinder. He crouched so as to place both the collar and the capsule in his briefcase, then took out his MultiCell, pressing the keys to place a call.

"I have completed the objective," he said.

"What did you receive from the Courier?" asked the Arbiter, his voice also devoid of any strong expression.

"There was no Courier. It was... a pigeon."

"A pigeon?"

"Yes. It crossed over to my location from Sector-1 using harmonic vibration shifting. It was carrying a metal capsule. There is something contained within, yet there are no obvious ways of opening it."

The Arbiter made no reply. After several moments, he continued.

"I suspect it was sent by the Overseer."

"I can think of no one else, either. It was he who issued the assignment to begin with. It is puzzling, however. What purpose does the Overseer have in sending you a capsule without a lid?"

The suited man's hairless brow ridges flexed ever so slightly as he asked himself the same question. A simple phone call or message would have sufficed, he thought. The Overseer's actions possessed no discernible rationale, unless the contents of the capsule were of absolute importance.

"What are my instructions?" the suited man asked his superior.

"Bring the cylinder to the Diner," said the Arbiter. "I will notify the others."

A moment of silence ensued, and his superior spoke once more.

"We are going to Council."

A slight pang of worry swept through his mind. Only once he collected his thoughts was he able to reply.

"Understood. I will be there shortly. September, out."

Shortly after terminating the call, he received a message on his MultiCell, and he looked at the circular display.

_**"Crépuscule Division Council Summoning **_  
_**Location Sector Alpha-2 [0.000/0.000/0.000]**_  
_**Time at 12:00:00 PM Local **_  
_**[Priority Code 1618]"**_

September replaced the device in his pocket, holding his briefcase in one hand and adjusting his fedora with the other. Council meetings were a periodic affair, where they would review their operations. That they were going to Council to address a top-priority matter – and one as peculiar as this one – was disconcerting.

What was inside the cylinder? What was the Overseer purpose in deviating from the norm?

September closed his eyes, vanishing from the roof of the building.

He supposed that he would soon be finding out.


	3. Chapter 2: A Timeless Reunion

Chapter 2: A Timeless Reunion

_Sorry, we're closed. _

The vigilant eye of the sun watched over September as he stood before the doors of the Bradford Diner.

It was a quaint little building, with a colorful sign above the entryway. Not a soul could be seen anywhere within the glass panes, the interior dim from lack of lighting. Regardless, he knocked on the door, knowing full well that the others were waiting for him. He checked his watch, as he had a habit of doing; it was nearly noon. Seeing as the Council was set to unfold only an hour after September received his message, he had decided to return to Franklin Park to bide his time. Yet when the time neared, he had no choice but to depart; he wouldn't want to be late.

September knocked again, and moments later, a loud and annoyed voice bellowed from within.

"We're closed! Come back tomorrow!"

September knocked once more, and the voice grunted in irritation as it came closer to the entrance. The door opened slightly, and a bearded face peered through the crack.

"Listen pal, I thought I told you that we're CLOSED!"

Once the proprietor saw him, however, the anger on his face was replaced by a mixture of relief and wariness.

"Hello, Horace", said September.

"Oh, it's you," Horace replied. "The rest are already here."

He opened the door to let his customer in, and glanced furtively outside.

"There is no need to worry, Horace. I was not followed."

"Well, you never know these days..."

While Horace locked the door, September walked towards the counter, eyeing the pictures of the meals offered on the menu panel above. Though it all appeared very tantalizing, now was not a time for snacking. Besides, he wouldn't enjoy them much, unless he drenched his meal in hot sauce; only the strongest of flavours managed to elicit some reaction from his taste buds. As he reflected upon the state of his gustatory life, Horace contoured the counter, wiping his rough hands on his dirty apron.

"So, you want anything? Food, Drink? I could fix you up with a Cheeseburger Platter, if you like."

"No, thank you. I am fine."

"Alrighty, then. They're waiting for you out back. Should be unlocked."

The suited man proceeded behind the counter, towards the back of the restaurant.

The kitchen was currently messy; dishes were lying in the sink, and tools and utensils were scattered about the workstations. The only thing worth noting for him, however, was the freezer room. He turned the handle and the hinges creaked noisily from the cold. The air was cool and refreshing; his breath spiraled upwards in a smoky

He scanned the metal shelves lining the frigid walls. From memory, he found an indented handle hidden between them. When he pulled it, the wall and the shelf affixed to it pivoted to the left, a disguised door revealing a narrow, dimly-lit staircase. September entered and closed the secret door behind him, erasing all traces of its existence.

As he walked down the stairs, mild apprehension began to stir in September's mind. He had attended Council meetings before, all of which proceeded efficiently and without any problems. And yet, he had the sense that this one would be different; it was as though every step he took amplified the almost tangible sense of urgency that emanated from the cylinder. At the bottom of the staircase lied a short corridor, with a door to the left. He hesitated slightly before twisting the doorknob and entering the brick room.

"Do you have a seven?"

"Go fish."

Seated around a table were five men with playing cards. Each donned similar suits and sported fedoras. They were all bald, and looked even stranger with their bald eyebrows. They all had the same unmoving face, with the same expressionless, yet perceptive eyes. And as September stood at the door, they turned their heads to in synchronous fashion.

"September. You are precisely on time."

September recognized the one who spoke as December, the voice from the call he had made almost an hour ago.

"Now that everyone is here, we may begin," December continued. "Let us enter the Council Chamber."

They faced away from each other and closed their eyes, each of them remaining unobserved. Mustering his concentration, September began the process of de-collapsing his personal wave function, altering the probability that he was inside the Council Chamber at that precise moment from near-zero to one. There was a gentle tug on his being as his physical location changed, shifting from the brick room to the adjacent Council Chamber. The Roads Less Traveled By, the technique was called; it consisted of altering the odds that they might be occupying one location in space instead of another, and was but one of the many talents September and his colleagues had at their disposal.

When he opened his eyes an instant later, he was met with darkness. And as though the room was aware of their arrival, a solitary light bulb dangling from the center of the room flickered on, granting dim illumination to the space.

The Witnesses found themselves in an alcove within the wall that served as the entry point of the chamber, which possessed no means of physical entry or exit to ensure its secrecy. In the center of the circular Council Chamber stood a round table of polished obsidian surrounded by six leather chairs. All light quickly faded beyond the table's circumference, making it the only object of note in the room.

One by one, they placed their fedoras on the six wooden hooks affixed horizontally just outside the alcove.

"November, please activate the Taffy," asked December as hung up his hat.

While the others went to their respective seats, November positioned himself before a keypad mounted on the wall. He input numerous commands, and a buzz resounded in the room as the Taffy – the name they had given the Temporal Acceleration Field out of their enjoyment for the chewy treat – took effect, emitting a faint hum that pulsated just beyond the stone walls. September felt the ambient change in the rate of temporal flow, tugging and pulling at his body and mind, a flow to which they all quickly acclimatized. November then took his seat, prompting the Arbiter to speak.

"The Council of the Witnesses will now be underway."

The Witnesses took their seats. The Council had begun.

It was in this chamber that the Witnesses of the Crépuscule Division would convene to discuss matters of great importance, assessing what has come before and what was to come. The Council Chamber itself was very recent, however, having been constructed in 1964 AD. Prior to that point, Council meetings were held in the backrooms of regular establishments; with the number of significant Events increasing at an almost exponential rate, however, they had to economize on time to respect their ever-crowding schedules. The Temporal Acceleration Field was implemented out of necessity. By accelerating the rate of temporal flow in a closed system by several factors of real-time, a meeting a few hours in duration could be completed in a matter of minutes.

Moderated by the Arbiter, the Witnesses cycled through topics of interest: the status of the Silent War, the integrity of the Veil, the current likelihood of Collision, the affairs of the various organizations and factions, the activities of their assigned Subjects, as well as the outcomes of recent Events they had observed, and December took note of all that was said. July shared his reports on the Old World Society, and of their recent acquirement of Glass Disks from covert NSA operatives; August presented his findings concerning the activities of Massive Dynamic in the past few weeks. September also spoke, detailing the recent changes to the Fringe Division in the Department of Homeland Security, all the while wondering when they would be addressing the cylinder.

After all matters have been addressed, December wrote down the last of his report and addressed the group.

"The reason I have summoned you to Council in fact pertains to something September has acquired," he began. "Show us what you have brought."

December nodded to September, prompting him to retrieve the briefcase at the side of his seat. The Witnesses exchanged curious glances as their fellow Witness place the briefcase on the table and turned the tumblers to unlock it. He extracted both the harmonic shift collar and the capsule, placing it on the table and stowing his briefcase away.

"The Overseer has sent this capsule from Sector-1," explained September. "He placed this harmonic vibration collar on a pigeon, which carried it to me. I suspect there to be something inside the capsule, but there are no clear ways to open it. There is only a message engraved on the outside."

He passed the cylinder along, each Witness examining it, running their sensory deprived fingers on its surface, before reaching December. He observed it from all angles, and found the inscription on the side.

_Whether there is a way or not rests with you._

His brow burrowed in deep thought, trying to decipher the meaning behind the cryptic clue. The others simply stared, awaiting some kind of response from their superior. After several moments, December placed the object on the table.

"And?" asked October.

"I suspect that these are instructions on how to open it. Everyone, please close your eyes so that I may open it unobserved."

Silence invaded the room as December attempted to open the cylinder. At first, all they could hear has his fingers sliding across the smooth surface, but soon enough, a metallic twisting sound came from his direction. When they heard the newly-created cap being removed, they opened their eyes to see the top of the previously uniform canister now resting on the table. They glanced at each other, waiting to see what was inside. December reached in and removed an aged piece of parchment, held together with a red ribbon.

December unrolled the page and began to sift through its contents. An uneasy tension filled the confines of the chamber as December's eyes gradually widened.

"What does it say?" asked July.

The Arbiter proceeded to read the parchment aloud.

_"To the Witnesses,_

_I imagine you must all be confused at the moment. Apologies for doing something so out of character, but I had to find a way to send a message which would be impossible to track. _

_Events are unfolding faster than anticipated. Because of this, I am deploying the Beacon to New York a few days from now. Your assignment will be to travel there and monitor its progress. _

_Due to the events that transpired during the Beacon's previous appearance, I'm lifting the Non-Interference Protocol for the duration of this mission. You therefore have the authority to do whatever is necessary in order to ensure the Beacon's safety._

_Send as many agents as you can afford to. However, I foresee that the Beacon's appearance will come to the attention of the Fringe Division, and by extension, come into contact with Walter Bishop. Of the agents selected for this assignment, September must be one of them. The instructions implanted in his mind as a contingency plan will no doubt come to surface once he interacts with the Beacon, further ensuring its safety._

_A unit of North Woods Group operatives have been inserted in Sector-2 three days ago in New York City. They tried to obtain the Beacon in its last appearance, and it is likely that they will try again. I have tasked some Proxies to keep an eye on their activities. I have yet to determine how they learned of the Beacon's location before, or what they might intend to do with it should they succeed in obtaining it, but this must not come to pass. Protect the Beacon at any cost. _

_Once you have finished reading this letter, destroy it, and have a Courier dispose of the collar and the capsule. Then, contact me with the names of those who will be going to New York so that I may send them their mission specifications. _

_Good luck, my Witnesses._

_Mercedony." _

December laid the letter on the table. Silence prevailed once more as the Witnesses digested the information that had just been presented. Of all them all, however, September was the most concerned. The Beacon was going to be sent a year ahead of its eleven-year cycles, and the Non-Interference Protocol, the rule which forbade directly interfering in events, had been lifted. But most troubling of all was the name mentioned in the letter.

_Walter Bishop._

He was aware of Walter's recent release from Saint-Claire's Hospital; in fact, the man had walked just past September a couple of weeks earlier while the Witness was observing an Event at a medical center. Walter was a very different individual than September remembered when they last met, just over seventeen years ago, shortly before the man's institutionalization; the extraction of parts of his brain, as well as the treatments and therapies he underwent during his incarceration left only traces of his former self.

Ever since that night in 1985 – the night that changed everything – Walter had become one of September's assigned Subjects, which was why the Witness had no choice but to accept the Beacon assignment. Even so, there was more to Walter than him simply being a Subject; the Witness was rather fond of Doctor Bishop, more so than any human he had ever observed.

He was looking forward to seeing him again.

The sound of discussion brought September back to reality. The others were debating amongst themselves over the next course of action to take, of how to proceed in light of the disturbing turn of events.

"This is not right. We are not supposed to interfere."

"Surely, he must have had a good reason to lift the Protocol."

"We must think about the possible repercussions this could bring."

"Why is the Beacon being sent ahead of schedule? Are our efforts not enough?"

Their exchanges echoed back and forth off the walls, filling the room in a cacophony of objection and doubt. Soon, September felt compelled to voice his concerns, adding his own to the auditory whirlwind. Suddenly, December, who had remained silent thus far, rose from his seat and pounded the black table with his fist, immediately silencing the Witnesses.

"Silence!"

His outburst took them all by surprise. He seldom raised his voice; December was the most calm and composed member of the Crépuscule Division. Even he appeared a bit shocked by his own actions. He took his seat, albeit in an almost hesitant fashion.

"We all know not to doubt the Overseer," said the Arbiter. "He never does things without reason. If this is how he wishes to proceed, then it is certainly for the best."

"How many will you be sending?" asked November.

December appeared lost in his thoughts, staring at the reflective surface of the table with calculative eyes before speaking at last.

"Because of important upcoming Events that will require our presence, I can only afford to send one other Witness to accompany September. Are there any volunteers?"

"I will go," offered October.

"Very well, then. You will receive your assignments once I have contacted The Overseer. Keep in mind that the Non-Interference Protocol has been temporarily uplifted, so you will have to use your judgment before making any decisions, lest you compromise the Directive and risk an Irregularity."

December rose, as did the others. He placed the manuscript between his fingers; their tips lit up, glowing, emitting an energetic discharge, and the manuscript burst aflame, crumbling to ashes in seconds. The Arbiter stored the ashes in the canister, which was then placed in his briefcase, along with the harmonic shift collar.

"The Council of the Witnesses is now adjourned."

September took his briefcase and trailed behind his fellow Witnesses as they reached for their fedoras on the wooden rack. They stationed themselves in the alcove as November returned to the keypad. He began to input a series of codes at a very fast rate – much faster than humanly possible – while the others observed, perceiving every movement of his fingers. A deep pulse began resonating at regular intervals, a telltale sign that Taffy was hard at work integrating the temporal rhythm of the Council chamber to that of the room outside. September felt the changing pressure in surrounding space-time as the room and its occupants resynchronized with real-time.

"Stabilization complete," November announced. "We're clear to leave."

And so they did, using the RLTB to shift from the Council Chamber to the nearby Diner cellar.

"Time is 12:02:45 and counting," said August, verifying his pocket watch after everyone had returned.

"Excellent," said December. "We should go out to lunch. Any suggestions?"

"How about some Mexican?" offered July. "It is only two dollars for a platter of hot wings at Juan's."

"Very well," said the Arbiter. "Let us depart."

The Witnesses made their exit out of the brick chamber in a single file. One by one, they emerged from the hidden door of the freezer room, which December closed and locked with a key behind them. The group entered the dining area, where Horace was busy wiping tables. He was taken aback when he saw the Witnesses stream out from the kitchen, and stood up to greet them.

"Done already? You've only been in there for a minute or two."

He scratched his head. They didn't come here often, and he knew better than to go downstairs and disturb them; he wondered what they might have been doing for the past few minutes. Realizing he was drifting into daydream, he walked over to the front and held the door for the others as they began exiting the Diner, being the gracious host he was.

"Thank you for your services, Horace," December said as he handed Horace his key.

"No problem. It's all for the greater good, right?"

"Yes...For the greater good."

"Alrighty then! Hey, if ever you guys want a bite or sumthin', feel free to drop by!" Horace shouted as the group swarmed the parking lot.

The sleek, luxurious coat of the two black Bentley's sparkled under the rays of the midday sun. It was the Crépuscule Division's vehicle of choice when having to deal with humans, a charade aimed to give the Witnesses the illusion of normalcy, as driving cars was less jarring than disappearing when outside of an observer's line of sight.

September climbed into the back seat of the nearest one with October as August took the wheel and pursued the others into the rush of lunch hour Boston. He looked out the window, watching the scenery unfold before his eyes. Yet even though the sun shone brightly, his mind drifted to darker thoughts. The Beacon was as essential as it was dangerous. He couldn't help but think of the premature arrival of the object as a precursor to the troublesome things to come. The Overseer's letter brewed a concern the likes of which he had not experienced since 1985, and he imagined that October was also anticipating their impending assignment with apprehension.

They had almost lost the Beacon in 1998.

And as the Witnesses longed the boulevard, September silently wished that things wouldn't go so out of hand this time around.


	4. Chapter 3: Engage

Chapter 3: Engage

Daniel Thompson couldn't sleep.

He stared blankly at the ceiling for God knows how long, trying desperately to purge his mind of everything but the desire to sink into an unconscious state. Every time he held his eyes shut, they would pop right open again the moment he let them go. As the night wore on, he attempted to cure his insomnia with increasingly ambitious remedies: changing positions, opening a crack in the window, doing some exercise, even resorting to drinking a glass of warmed milk, thinking perhaps there was truth in what he suspected might be an urban myth. Alas, none of his efforts proved to be fruitful; if anything, they siphoned the little weariness he had straight out of him. Defeated, he plummeted onto the single-sized bed, face stuffed into his pillow and limbs wrought limply across the sheets. After a moment, he raised his head and glanced over at his alarm clock; it was almost two o'clock.

_Damn it._

He hated these restless nights; they often morphed into rough all-nighters where he only managed to muster a few hours of unproductive sleep. Dan was getting fed up with his body's defiant behavior, but had no choice but to concede. There was no denying it any longer: he wasn't going to fall asleep any time soon. Coming to this begrudging epiphany, he eventually decided to go out for a walk, seeing as he wasn't going to accomplish much lying in bed. Besides, he figured it might end up stirring some form of fatigue. He slipped on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, topped the whole with a brown coat, and locked the door as he exited his apartment.

The cool air of Boston City swept in to greet his worn out face as he strode down the block. The streetlamps highlighted the path that he followed, one that he pursued with hands buried in his pockets and eyes glued to the ground. He passed by many strangers on the street, creatures of the night just like himself, but their numbers began to dwindle as he ventured onto more solitary roads. He soon found himself wandering quieter parts of the neighborhood, where the hubbub of nocturnal city life toned down to a whisper. The stroll was doing him wonders; he felt the tension in his body leave with every step. He reminded himself to go out on more of these night-time prowls.

A sudden cracking noise brought Dan to a halt. He looked around, ears on maximum alert; it seemed to have come out of a nearby alleyway.

Much to his awakening disgust, the noise had sounded like the snapping of bones.

He waited a moment. Nothing else came from the alley's recesses. He wanted to leave, but something was holding him in place. Ever since he was a teenager, he has been in search of the Truth, of what might possibly be just beyond the bend. He ultimately decided that, in spite of all the risks, he would investigate the source of the noise. He therefore crept down the alley, staying close to the brick wall, choosing his steps carefully so as to not make a sound. When he came to the corner as the alley bent left, he heard rustling that could only have been caused by a living organism. He leaned his head out just a bit to see.

In the middle of the alley were two individuals: a rather elderly-looking man crouching near a young woman, who was lying on the ground.

Her head was tilted in Dan's direction. Her eyes appeared to be staring straight at him, cold and hollow eyes devoid of life, seemingly accusing him of not being there to save her.

He looked away. Fear now began to settle in as he realized that she was dead. It then dawned on him that the cracking sound from earlier was most likely that of her snapping neck, and that the old man must have been the one to have killed her. He peered over once more, and watched as the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rectangular object, sleek and black in the shadows of the alley. Dan's eyes widened at the sight of the device, and his heart raced faster and faster as the old man stretched a long wire that ended in three small spikes and planted it into his victim's palate.

He averted his sight and pressed against the wall, shutting his eyes as the memories flooded back all at once. In the middle of the alleyway stood the thing that has haunted his dreams for years on end. Something he has tried very hard to forget. Something that he feared above all else, that he hoped never to see again.

The Shape-Changer.

It was the Shape-Changer he saw all those years ago.

He was fourteen years of age, a freshman at Saint Matthews High School. Being a freshman wasn't quite what Dan had expected it to be, while things weren't as tumultuous as they had been in the beginning, the experience as a whole was more often of a drag than not. His opinion of the high school experience had changed when he built up the bravado to ask Tanya Brown whether rumours that he was indeed the object of her affections had any basis.

Turns out they were, and that Friday evening, he was preparing himself to go see Back to the Future III with her.

There was nothing all that spectacular about seeing a movie with someone, but for one who had yet to initiate himself into the world of the opposite sex, the event was of monumental importance. And so he spent a long time in front of his mirror, nitpicking at his appearance, prepping himself mentally, and attempting to quell the butterflies. It didn't help that his mother was doting on him more than usual, as this was quite a significant moment in her son's life. She had offered to drive him there, but Dan insisted on walking there; this was something he had to do alone.

He shuffled into his coat and went off into the night, as he had done multiple times before. In his mind, he rehearsed things he might say, the various ways in which things might go down. Anxious, he would repeatedly glance at his watch, as a means to take his mind off things. Thinking that it might be best to get there earlier, he decided to cut through an alley to save on time.

Of all the nights to stray from the beaten path.

When he bent down to tie his shoe in an open area behind a cluster of buildings, he heard a gunshot, coming surprisingly close. Then he heard another, and another.

"What the hell do you want from me?" shouted a man's voice.

Panic seized Dan. He could already see the shadow of the individual against the mouth of the alleyway behind him. Was it too late to run? He swirled around and darted to the nearest possible hiding spot, which happened to be a dumpster, angled out slightly. Young Dan contoured it to crouch behind the obstruction, thinking that the pursuit would fly past him.

It didn't, of course.

He heard sprinting footsteps echo louder and louder, coming closer and closer. The man, panting heavily, stopped; while that much was clear from the cessation of sprinting steps, Dan could also see the man's shadow on the portion of brick wall he could see from behind the dumpster, cast by a nearby light source. The shadow turned about, the gun's silhouette visible in the hand, watching, waiting, the coast apparently clear.

Another shadow suddenly came from above without a sound, dwarfing the other in size.

Seeing this, the man's shadow started to shrink as the man himself gradually backed up against the wall. Once he had nowhere to go, he readied his pistol, shut his eyes, and kept pulling the trigger, only to discharge impotent clicks. He dropped his weapon on the floor while the other shadow came closer; tears began to flow down his cheeks, all hope of escape lost. His eyes drifted over to Dan's location, seeing some scared kid camping out there. Perplexity blended with the fear on his face.

That scared kid was the last thing he ever saw.

He screamed. A pair of hands gripped his shirt and threw him the other way. Dan covered his ears and watched on the wall as the shadow mounted onto its victim, as the shadow killed the man, as the shadow put a wire in the corpse's mouth before putting another its own. He held his eyes shut tight, trying to drown out the sickening crunching of bones. Then the shadow, satiated, dragged the body over to the dumpster where Daniel hid and lugged the body inside, by some miracle never once noticing the human tucked behind it.

He didn't dare emerge from hiding out of fear that the shadow might be waiting. When he was sure that it was gone, however, he got out, and went on his way.

Tanya had been a bit peeved that Dan was late, and he mumbled some generic excuse he could not now recall. He watched the movie in a sort of shell-shocked daze, not really paying attention to the film or his date. After it concluded, she had been polite enough, but it was clear she had found the entire outing awkward. Dan hadn't noticed in the least, instead engrossed by all the shadows surrounding them, which had taken on a new, predatory dimension.

She never really interacted with him after that, and he never told her – or anyone, for that matter – of the incident. He told not a soul of the shadow and the man that it killed, or that he spotted that very same man walking on the streets a few days after he had watched him die.

It was the Shape-Changer that made Daniel a believer in the strange and the unexplained. It was the Shape-Changer that incited a teenage Dan to undertake his search for the Truth.

It was the Shape-Changer that stood in the middle of an alleyway at one-thirty in the morning, eighteen years later. Dan peered out from the corner and saw the old man's face contort and crunch as his bones rearranged to take on the appearance of the young woman. Dan couldn't bear to watch the stomach-churning display, pressing himself against the wall in a tight ball, as he had done once before.

Once the gruesome ritual was over, the Shape-Changer, now an attractive woman, donned the body's clothing and hid the corpse under some garbage bags before turning in Dan's direction. He held his breath, pressing as tightly as he could against the wall. A moment passed before he heard footsteps getting fainter; she was going the other way.

Dan let out a sigh of relief, taking shallow gasps. Once he recovered, he began to walk away, ready to return home, but then he hesitated. The Truth was only steps away, just within his grasp. And if he wasn't going to fall asleep before, he certainly wasn't going to now. The idea that came to him was, quite frankly, insane, not to mention extremely dangerous. He wrestled with his conscience until his inquisitive nature finally got the better of him.

He gathered what courage he could before following what he feared most down the streets of Boston.

He stalked the Shape-Changer from afar, making sure not to be seen, pressing against doorsills, ducking into alleys, waiting before continuing around the corner. She walked at a fast pace and took a winding path that made Dan question whether she – it – knew where it was going, and whether this pursuit was actually worth pursuing. He dismissed the notion of quitting, though; he might never get another chance to discover the Truth. It was too late to turn back now.

After about an hour or so of dedicated tracking and long after Dan was ready to resign, the creature made a turn and entered a self-storage lot located on a wharf. He followed from afar, slithering his way between the storage units, making sure he was always close to his target. She soon stopped in front of a storage unit and knocked on the red door; Dan kept hidden in the shadows, pressed against the side of a unit a couple of rows down and across from the Shape-Changer. The door lifted, and two men appeared; Dan assumed them to be Shape-Changers as well. The trio exchanged words, and Dan had trouble hearing what they were saying with the wind pounding in his ears. The woman then entered the storage unit and the door slid down to a close.

Daniel sat down against the unit. He had come to the end of the road. He couldn't just go knocking at the door, and hadn't the faintest clue of when they would come back out, if ever. He had a feeling that his idea would turn out to have been fruitless. With great reluctance, he started to retrace his steps. Just then, he thought he heard something moving behind him. He turned around to bump not into something, but _someone_, falling onto the ground with a yell.

"Shhh! They'll hear you!" whispered a voice.

Dan sat up and was blinded; a flashlight was being pointed at his face. The man's peered at him with small blue eyes. He sported a neatly trimmed gray goatee. He donned a black tuque and wore baggy camouflage-print cargo pants and a black sweater plastered with a Led Zeppelin logo. The man was crouching near the wall when he deposed his backpack on the ground.

"What are you doing here?" asked Dan as he stood up.

"I should be asking _you_ the same question!" replied the man. " This is no place for an amateur. You should leave _espionage_ to the professionals!"

"Whoa, hold on. Who exactly _are_ you?"

The man stood up to his full height.

"_I_ am the son of Sarek," he announced, head held high. "But you may address me as Spock."

_This guy's a total nutcase_.

"Um, hello...Spock...I'm Dan. Nice to meet you. I think."

"Well, Dan, it's nice to meet you too. Now go home."

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere," Dan declared, refusing to be dismissed so bluntly; he couldn't go, not yet. Spock seemed irritated, his lips drawn in a scowl.

"Listen, _Dan_. There are things going on here you can't even _begin_ to comprehend. What are hoping to find here?"

The question somehow managed to catch Dan off guard. What exactly _was_ he hoping to find? Maybe he wasn't supposed to get involved. And yet, he was so close. He considered telling Spock everything he knew. The man was obviously unbalanced; what did he have to lose? And so he gave this Spock the only honest answer that he could.

"...I'm looking for the Truth."

Spock's face turned solemn, then commending.

"Ah, a fellow Truth-seeker, I see," he said. "Well, my friend, you've come to the right place."

Dan was satisfied with the answer. Maybe Spock wasn't as loony as he appeared. He decided to try his luck.

"At the risk of sounding crazy, I just watched an old man kill a woman and morph into her using some weird device."

"A Shapeshifter?" asked Spock, suddenly on Yellow Alert. "Where?"

"I followed it here. She went inside that compartment over there with two other guys."

"You actually _followed_ a Shapeshifter?" exclaimed Spock. "Well, count yourself lucky that it didn't spot you, or you might never have made it here."

A wave of relief broke over Dan, washing away a huge burden from his mind. Finally, confirmation that it wasn't all in his head, that everything he was experiencing was real and not just some dream... even though said confirmation came from a deranged man who named himself after a character from Star Trek.

"How much do you know about these..._Shapeshifters_?" asked Dan.

"I've compiled a significant amount of data on Shapeshifters. I've come here to look for some. For the past few weeks, I've been keeping tabs on this place, coming here at night and gathering photographic evidence. Based on what I managed to gather from their conversations," he said, looking around in a paranoid manner, "they're part of something called the First Wave."

"First Wave? First Wave of _what_?"

Before Spock could continue, the Shapeshifters emerged from their outpost. Dan and Spock ducked down, creeping their heads just far enough to see them. There were seven of them in all, four men and three women, all of varying ages; they appeared to be closing shop. They began to walk towards a couple of SUV's parked near their storage unit.

"Looks like they're moving out," Spock said, looking through a pair of binoculars. "We should follow them, see what they're up to."

As they prepared to tail them, the duo heard the rising rumble of engines. The Shapeshifters seemed to notice this too, cocking their heads this way and that. At that moment, a throng of SUV's suddenly arrived on scene, blocking all exit routes. Out of the vehicles emerged black-clad men with weaponry straight out of a science-fiction flick. They positioned themselves against the cars for cover, shouting commands, and the Shapeshifters responded by whipping out their own weapons, realizing the severity of the situation.

They were being ambushed.

Shots were fired. The energy bursts doled out by the invading party cut through the air, missing their super-humanly agile enemies. The Shapeshifters themselves wielded regular pistols, and even though they were outnumbered two to one, they were sill causing the men a lot of trouble with their superior accuracy.

"Ah, damn it! I forgot my camera!" Spock whined as he rummaged through his backpack.

"Don't worry, I got you covered," Dan said, taking out his cell phone.

He filmed everything as it unfolded. The Shapeshifters slid in and out between the storage units for cover. The opposing factions tried to pick each other off, and little by little, soldiers from both sides began to fall. Dan saw a silvery substance trickled out of a Shapeshifter's wound. Another made a run for it, but a plasma shot knocked her into the air and into the red panel door of a storage unit. Riled, but unfazed, she got up and continued to run towards one of the SUV's, jumping over and attacking some men with her intimidating strength.

"Are you getting all this?" Spock yelled to Dan, adding his voice to the din of blasting weaponry.

An energy blast suddenly zoomed into the crevice where they were nested, erupting in a bright flash and sending out a shock-wave that knocked them to the ground. They got up, dazed, and Spock took Dan by the shoulder. An SUV exploded, and a massive fireball swelled up into the night sky.

"Come on! Let's get the hell out of here!" he screamed.

They retreated into the recesses of the units, Spock leading the way with his flashlight. They soon came out into open space, slowing to a tired jog, trying to catch their breath. He led Dan to his car, parked on the outskirts of the lot. It was used-looking machine, a worn Oldsmobile with a mismatched hood. Dan looked around and spotted a man stumble out of the units on the other end of the lot. He stopped and turned his head in their direction. He had a bullet wound in his shoulder and chest; they were oozing silver blood. Spock turned around to see him as well. His eyes widened.

"Run!"

The duo ran as fast as they could to the car. Dan looked back, only to see the Shapeshifter run at an incredible speed, steadily gaining on them despite its injuries. They got to the car, and Spock fumbled with his keys, trying to find the correct one.

"Will you hurry the hell up?" yelled Dan.

Spock opened the door and let Dan inside. The Shapeshifter was getting closer. As Dan buckled his seat-belt, Spock turned on the automobile, and some Rush blasted from the radio. He then gripped the wheel with one hand and the shift stick with the other, and stared straight ahead with stoicism before speaking aloud.

"...Engage!"

He put the car in drive and stomped on the gas pedal. The tires squealed as they propelled the vehicle forward, straight on the course of their oncoming pursuer. Dan clutched the armrests, his knuckles ivory white as they held on. They both started screaming in a rising crescendo as the Oldsmobile accelerated. The Shapeshifter tried to move out of the way, but he was running too fast and couldn't halt his momentum in time. Spock plowed right through him, sending him tumbling off to the side with a surprisingly hard impact.

The Oldsmobile squealed to a stop.

They peered into the rear-view mirror; the Shapeshifter lay still on the asphalt, arms outstretched. Dan was relieved for a moment until something caught his eye. He saw in the mirror as the man-thing stood itself up, legs quivering. He then turned around, a murderous intent in his eyes, and limped over to the car at a terrifying pace. Dan tapped frantically at Spock's shoulder.

"Go, go, go!"

They sped away into the night, leaving their pursuer to bite the dust. Dan kept watch in the rear-view mirror; the Shapeshifter stopped, realizing the futility of pursuit. They looked at each other, and started to burst into laughter, giving each other a high-five, riding out their adrenaline rushes.

"WOOOHOOOO!" yelled Spock as he sped down the street.

With Dan's guidance, they soon found their way to his apartment, the Oldsmobile parking on the sidewalk before the building. Dan was spent; never had he experienced such exhilaration in the entirety of his life. He got out of the car and stretched his limbs, inhaling the cool air with gusto.

"So I guess we're calling it a night?" Spock said as leaned over in his seat.

"Yeah," Dan said. "I have to go to work tomorrow."

"I hear you, man."

Dan began to walk towards the door, but Spock halted him.

"Hey, uh...listen, Dan. Why don't you stop by my place tomorrow night? I'll show you what I got on the Shapeshifters. Besides, we Truth-seekers should stick together, you know?"

Spock proceeded to scribble his address on a post-it note. Dan accepted the piece of paper and began to walk away as Spock started the car.

"Hey, Dan!"

Dan turned around; Spock leaned over in his seat and extended his gloved fingers in a Vulcan salute.

"Live long and prosper!"

Rush's "Tom Sawyer" blasted from the brown Oldsmobile, dimming gradually until the car vanished from sight as it turned the corner. Dan returned to his apartment, letting himself fall onto his bed. He didn't sleep that night, but he sure as hell didn't care.

* * *

_A/N: Just in case anyone has forgotten, Emmanuel Grayson is the conspiracy nut who appeared in episode 1.19 'The Road Not Taken' of the show, and the man who thought himself as literally being Spock of Star Trek TOS. I'll be taking a lot of these one-off characters from the show and incorporating them into the story in this way, which should make for some interesting reading (hopefully). ;)_


	5. Chapter 4: Tomorrow

Chapter 4: Tomorrow

_**"Activate Correspondence Protocol**_  
_**Location Sector Alpha-2 [-44.3611/27.0524/01.35]**_  
_**Time at 8:42:23 AM Local **_  
_**[Priority code 2718]"**_

September entered the door to be greeted by the warm, hospitable atmosphere of Martin's Coffee Shop. People of all sorts gathered around the multitude of tables, ready to obtain their daily dose of caffeine. Casual friends spoke of everything and nothing, others preferred to glance over the Boston Herald, and some simply stare out the window, lost in perpetual daydream.

As for the Witnesses, they sat near a window that overlooked the restless streets. After placing their fedoras aside, they began observing the neatly arranged condiments and pamphlets before them, handling them with care. While October scrutinized the labels on the ketchup and mustard containers, September mused in silence, staring out the windowpane while fiddling with his fork. He watched strangers pass by with a close eye; they were making decisions every second, barely aware of what impressions their choices made on the world around them. Without knowing it, they were shaping the course of time.

And September could see it all as it happened.

"Good morning, gentlemen! Here are the menus."

The middle-aged woman placed them before the two men, who stared at the menus inquisitively, as though they weren't quite sure what do with them.

"I'll back with you in a sec to take your orders."

The waitress then dashed in the other direction, entering the kitchen doors, which swiveled back and forth lazily as she passed through them. The Witnesses began skimming through the menus for something that would stimulate their gustatory senses.

"Do you know what you are having?" asked September.

"Yes," his companion replied as he perused the breakfast specials.

For several minutes, they waited for the waitress, and soon enough, she burst from the kitchen, armed with a pen and notepad.

"So, are you boys ready to order?"

They glanced at each other, trying to decide who was going to speak first, before September collapsed the instance of indeterminacy.

"I will have two bagels, lightly toasted, with bacon on the side. Water, room temperature, no ice."

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes."

After jotting the order down on her notepad, she directed her attention to October.

"And what will you be having, sir?"

"I will have what he's having," he began, "but instead of water, I would like some...coffee."

September gave his companion a surprised glance.

"Any preference?"

"The strongest brew you can offer."

She transcribed the order, intrigued by the slightly unorthodox meal combination.

"Alright then. Four lightly toasted bagels with bacon coming right up!"

The energetic woman left in haste once more, weaving through the brouhaha of the busy shop's clientele.

"Why did you order coffee?" asked September.

"I have always wondered what it tasted like," replied October with a glimmer of anticipation in his eye.

Though September thought this to be a peculiar choice on October's behalf, he paid little mind to it. For while his partner dreamed of sublime delicacies, September ruminated incessantly over the responsibility that he had been burdened with. Contrary to what his cold, detached exterior would suggest to the naked eye, his inner world was rather perturbed, regardless of the fact that he was specifically trained for undertakings such as these.

The waitress – Pauline, as her name tag read – delivered the freshly made food to their table; balancing the trays seemed second nature to her. September could perceive the heat rising from the bagels and the lustrous coat of grease that enveloped the strips of porcine meat.

It was time for breakfast.

The pair began by spreading a light layer of butter on the bagels, moistening their gold, toasted surfaces. Their movements were synchronous, almost as if a maestro was secretly guiding them, waving his wand from a place hidden from view. They then took the salt shakers, loosened the caps, and proceeded to shower their bagels with it. An onlooker donned a puzzled grimace, but the odd duo was too absorbed by their ritual to take note.

The final act of their bizarre spectacle involved the voracious devouring of the transmogrified sesame seed buns, stuffing the whole into their mouths with skill rivalling master taxidermists. The unhealthy amounts of sodium chloride tickled September's tongue and throat as he and October chewed the lot noisily, gaining the momentary attention from a few nearby patrons.

Its mineral sweetness was so good, he could almost taste it.

The Witnesses moved on to the bacon. Although less satisfying, September still enjoyed masticating its rubbery texture. He then gulped his glass of water in one go and placed it down in satiation. As for October, he eyed his otherworldly cup of black coffee. He sipped it hesitantly, and, once acquainted with the flavor, swallowed the whole cup in one fell gulp.

"How is it?" asked September.

"It is a peculiar beverage," October replied. "I can barely taste it, yet the caffeine adds a delectable element to it. I believe I like this...coffee."

The momentary excitement soon dimmed, and the conversation quieted to the sound of tranquil contemplation, as was the norm between the Witnesses. September's thoughts meandered back to the images of Beacons and burdens. He considered sharing his concerns with his comrade, but he found the task of gathering the will to speak his mind a rather difficult one.

"The Courier is set to arrive shortly," announced October, chewing on his final piece of bacon.

September verified his watch to checked the validity of the statement, and found it to be correct, even though he could already foresee the messenger's arrival. In fact, that was the very reason that they were in the coffee shop; soon, a man clad in a black trench coat would appear and casually deposit a briefcase filled with pertinent information before leaving as swiftly as he came. It was merely convenient that the exchange would fall upon breakfast time, which was why October had requested to have the drop-off occur at the coffee shop instead of a bus stop on Grant Street.

"Will you tend to the Courier while I go relieve myself?" September inquired.

"Of course."

September rose from his seat and directed himself to the bathroom at the other end of the bustling shop. No one was present. He entered the small space of the farthest urinal and began relieving himself. His physiology did not require him to go very often, as he absorbed much of what he ingested, his body breaking down sustenance very efficiently. But once in a while, he was forced to flush out all the sweets, salts and spices, and toxins that built up within him, making for one concentrated outing.

The Witness did not notice the presence of the man who had entered the bathroom, only to hesitate at the sight of a bald man in a suit poised before a urinal. It was only when this man took to the urinal two positions over from the Witness that September took note of his company.

He was instantly alarmed.

The man held a golden glimmer, an aura that enveloped his body, shimmering and wavering about him, revealing his Sector-1 origin. The only humans that have crossed over to this world from the other were North Woods Group operatives, who only in the last fifteen years determined how to cross over, using a rudimentary methodology that posed great and often fatal risks to the user.

Yet Mercedony's letter said the NWG operatives were inserted in New York, not Boston. What was one doing here? Had he come to deliver a message to him? But when would the NWG have learned of the existence of the League of the Witnesses?

But the man had to be of the NWG. It was either that, or this man was affiliated with another group of humans from Sector-1 that the Witnesses were not aware of, which would not be possible.

The mystery human periodically glanced to the suited man, his emerald eyes not giving September any hint as to what he might be thinking. And when the man moved away, his business done, September did not perceive his departure before it happened, something that _definitely_ could not have been possible. All humans possessed a temporal precursor, that transparent silhouette projected from the individual that showed what they will do in the very near future. Even the non-human Hybrids had temporal precursors, as they too were beings capable of conscious choice, their actions not fully constrained by physical forces.

How could a human lack a precursor?

After flushing the urinal, September slowly approached the sink, where the shimmering man with the faded jeans and white was also washing his hands, taking his time, being thorough.

"I noticed your friend outside," said the man. "Are you lawyers or bankers or something?"

"No."

September reached for the paper towel dispenser as though the man were not even there. None could know of the existence of the League of the Witnesses; even humans under their employ knew very little of their employers. The more people knew, the likelier it was that they would make decisions based on this information. If a human with enough influence were to know of the Witnesses, their actions might interfere with the Directive, and that could not stand.

As he disposed of the used paper towel in the bin on his way out, September figured that it was best to leave as soon as possible, so that he would only be remembered as the bald man this human once met in a bathroom.

"I suppose this means you're a Witness, then."

September stopped in his tracks.

_Impossible. _

He turned around to see the man standing over the sink, shaking the water from his hands. He appeared pleasantly surprised, as though he had made a guess; yet there was also a knowing glint in his eye which September found most disconcerting.

"You know," he said, wiping his hands with the brown paper towel, "I would have never thought a Witness would need to urinate like the rest of us. Then again, reality has a way of subverting one's expectations. Wouldn't you agree?"

September remained silent, but only because he was focused on trying to probe into the man's mind through use of Passive Calibration. It should have already started to take hold from proximity, but for some reason, he could not discern the contents of the man's mind.

More troubling was that the man seemed to notice.

"That won't work, unfortunately," he said, touching his temple lightly. "I would have tried the same on you if I could, but that's not my thing." He shook his head, as though in realization. "You know, I shouldn't even be talking to you. I didn't expect to find one of you here, but hey, things happen, right? Anyway, I should get going."

September stood dumbstruck as the man walked past him. The Witness snapped out of it and turned around.

"Who are you?" asked the Witness.

The man stopped, turning to face the Witness. As he did, the most curious thing occurred; for the briefest moment, September thought he saw the proportions in his face and body change, becoming slightly off. He returned to normal in the literal blink of an eye, however, causing September to wonder if there was a problem with his eyes.

"Of course, how rude of me," said the man.

He began to approach September, who took a step back. Was he a threat? September considered whipping out his Pulse Pistol and eliminating the man then and there; no one was watching, and the Non-Interference Protocol was not presently in effect, so he had the authority to get involved. But he didn't know enough about this individual to know what ramifications that might have, and he might risk compromise the Directive if he did so.

September almost did it anyway when the man suddenly brought out his hand before realizing it was an invitation to shake it.

"Name's Thomas Moroe," he said as September reservedly accepted the hand. Moroe clasped his other hand on September's own, who noticed there was a ring on the second hand's pinky finger, a grapefruit-coloured gem set within. "Most call me Tom. And you are?"

"I am... Mister Reed."

"Reed, huh? A common name made unusual by context. I like it."

It was not his real name, of course; it was an alias, to be used in the rare occasions when a Witness had to identify themselves to the humans. In that moment, he was grateful that the Overseer had thought to give them pseudonyms after they had completed their training.

"Well, Mister Reed, it's probably best for the both of us if I went on my way," said Tom. "I'm sure the Witnesses are a busy bunch, after all." He chuckled to himself. "I'm still having a hard time believing that I ran into one of you guys like this. Still, let me just say that it was a great honour making your acquaintance, Mister Reed."

He inclined his body forward a bit, a small bow of sorts. Again, he seemed to change briefly, subtly, a change so quick it could seldom have said to have happened.

"Love and Light, my friend," he said on the rise. "May we meet again."

With that, Tom Moroe exited the washroom, leaving a stunned Witness behind.

It took a moment to snap out of his complacency, but when he did, September rushed to the door and scanned the crowds for signs of an otherworldly glimmer. The strange human called Thomas Moroe was nowhere to be seen, unfortunately. September stood at the mouth of the corridor leading to the washrooms in reflection. He had wanted to ask Moroe many questions, but he had been too taken aback by the fact that he had never once observed a human of this type in all of his existence. How could that be, when nothing in these two parallel realities eluded their awareness?

The further he explored the question of Moroe's identity, the more it became obvious that he would not be finding tangible answers anytime soon. As he navigated his way to his table, September thought it better to refrain from telling October of the encounter; they were about to embark on an important mission, and would have no time to dwell on matters other than the task at hand.

The other Witness sat quietly at the table. A briefcase now lay on the floor at his side. September took his seat, appearing inconspicuous, head still staggering from the encounter.

"The Courier has arrived," said October. "What took you so long? Was there a problem?"

"No," said September. "I... simply have not gone in some time."

"If you say so," replied his partner. "We should leave now. The train will soon be departing."

After October left their dues on the table, the pair rose in unison and left their comfortable seats at Martin's Coffee Shop and headed towards those waiting for them inside the train they would be taking at the South Station terminal, which would be leaving within the hour to New York, the Beacon's destination. While they could have simply used the RLTB to travel there directly, the Witnesses enjoyed taking the more scenic routes when time allowed it; there was more to observe, and it is why they were making their way to the terminal on foot.

The last time September had been there, barely over a week ago, he had just finished observing an Event when the Subjects Protocol was put into effect. He made his way to the terminal and guided one of his assigned Subjects, setting up the conditions which would allow the desired outcome to be achieved. There were no such assignments issued today, however, so the Witnesses simply purchased their tickets and boarded their Amtrak train, settling themselves in one of the First Class cabins; for if the Witnesses were going to subject themselves to the inefficiency of human transportation methods, they figured it would be best to be as comfortable as possible.

The train nudged its cars, signalling its imminent departure. The vehicle inched forward, accelerating sluggishly until picking up steam as it left the station. Once the train had achieved its travelling speed, one of the attendants visited their cabin, offering food and drink. September declined the offer. October, however, kept asking for increasingly outlandish snack combinations, none of which they had, until he finally settled for some underwhelming toast and molasses. She brought the requested items in a relative flash, then left to attend to her duties. The coast clear, October slid the briefcase to his colleague before busying himself in drowning the helpless slices of bread with a bottle of molasses; what they were about to discuss was for their eyes and ears alone.

September turned the tumblers on the lock, opening the case, and extracted a handful of files. He handed October the Intel report before analyzing the photographs. They were all taken from different angles, but they all framed a recurring pattern: an isolated field filled with a large group of physically identical men performing a variety of exercises, including, jumping jacks, push-ups, and running laps as a unit, among others. They were of excellent quality; the members of the Witnesses-By-Proxy Network, the human operatives under the employ of the League of the Witnesses, were highly-trained and highly-skilled individuals, having access to technology created by the Overseer. He looked up to October, who was both analyzing the report and consuming his toast, oblivious to the fact that molasses stained his mouth as he spoke.

"Proxies report that Massive Dynamic has created their first successfully-matured batches in their supersoldier cloning program, and that the Christopher Penrose clones are undergoing their initial training for use on the field."

"At this rate," noted September, "they will have amassed enough foot soldiers to mount an effective resistance against the GDC's biomechanical soldiers from Sector-1."

"Perhaps, but Sector-1's forces are technologically superior," October countered.

The Silent War, it was called; the ongoing, covert conflict being wage between the two worlds. While it was entirely within the power of the Witnesses to swoop in and influence events so that the War unravels, it would be counter-intuitive. The outcomes of any given event were not always so easily predictable – especially those of their own making – and the Overseer has emphasized before his commitment to only influence the course of history through indirect means.

September had a vague sense of how the Silent War would unfold, given current trends; however, his perception did not reach very far beyond a certain point. There was nothing but a fog of indeterminacy, clouding his vision of the likelier futures. It was because of this that he wondered whether the probability of Collision was greater than he had suspected, which would have made all their efforts in vain. It was hard to say, and uncertainty was something September had no strong fondness for.

The increasing tension in the Silent War, his encounter with Moroe, the Beacon's premature arrival; it seemed to him that too many things were happening at once. He imagined that October must have been entertaining similar thoughts as he wiped his mouth with a napkin and stared out the window while the countryside revealed itself under his watchful eyes.

For the two hours, they kept to themselves. Upon nearing their destination, October spoke.

"Once we arrive, I believe it would be best if we split up," he said.

"What do you suggest?"

"One of us should oversee the Beacon while the other deals with the North Woods Group agents in the area. They may attempt to interfere."

"I will supervise the Beacon," volunteered September.

"Very well."

They saw the city skyline in the distance. Soon, the train began to brake, losing speed and momentum until it finally came to a full stop, taking a well-deserved rest on the platform. The Witnesses gathered their things and exited the train, following the winding tunnels and stairways to emerge in the colossal lobby of Grand Central Station. The sun was nearing its zenith outside when the Witnesses emerged and began their descent of the staircase.

"Once the Beacon arrives, it will remain on the surface for approximately fifty-three hours," September announced as they scaled the last few steps.

They came to the bottom of the staircase and faced each other.

"I will keep you notified of the Beacon's progression," started September.

"And I will do the same on my end."

Not ones for formalities, the pair spoke no more and parted ways, September taking on the East, October taking on the West, both taking on their mission with an iron resolve.


	6. Chapter 5: Mercury and Theobromine

Chapter 5: Mercury and Theobromine

_1701, Summerside Apartments, Keller Street, Malden_  
_Its right across from the Pizzeria, you can't miss it ;P_  
_PS - Make sure you aren't followed O.o_

Thus read the note Dan withdrew from his pocket as he finished his shift at the Quickway convenience store and headed down the street. He spent the better part of the previous night trying to make sense of Spock's botched penmanship, but he eventually succeeded, albeit with excessive squinting and holding of the note at various angles. After much consideration, he decided to follow through on the Son of Sarek's invitation, even though he had only met him the previous night; he seemed to be just the guy to go to if you wanted light shed on things.

The sky was darkening by the time Dan left his apartment. He walked around until he spotted a taxi cab, which he promptly flagged down.

"Where to?" asked the driver.

"Keller Street, Malden."

"You got it."

Since Malden was only three and a half miles from Somerville – just on the other side of Chelsea River – the drive was a short one. In minutes, the cab found itself wheeling into Keller Street, and Dan had the driver drop him off on the curb. Paying his light fare, he emerged from the vehicle, which wheeled away to hunt for more willing riders.

The streetlights were coming on, now, placed on either side of the street as though a runway, showing him the way. He began his trek, advancing along the street with purpose. It occurred to him as he strolled that events were unfolding pretty fast; he had barely escaped a sci-fi skirmish with his life just over eighteen hours ago. Wasn't he supposed to be scarred for life, or at the very least be questioning his sanity? He was surprised to see that he was holding up so well psychologically; but then again, he had prior experience in witnessing the unbelievable.

The apartment building was clear to see, but Dan nonetheless continued until he reached the pizzeria, which happened to be right across from it. Here, he crossed the street, halting before the entry steps. The glass panel doors had "Summerside Apartments" stenciled in cursive gold font in the glass section over the doors. However, Spock's apartment was on ground level, found in a sort of inclined alcove off on the left-hand face of the building.

The door – which had a six locks lined up over the handle – had a small label just underneath the peephole, denoting the name "Grayson".

He knocked on the door. There was no answer. A moment passed before he tried again, and then once more, both attempts proving to be just as futile; either Spock was indisposed, not home, or had beamed up to the Enterprise. He faced the door as he ran his head through his brown hair, taking a long exhalation. Not wanting to wait around, he decided that he had no choice but to depart.

"Well, look who decided to show up!"

Walking towards him was Spock, sporting a Red Sox cap and handling a box of pizza.

"The good thing about living in front of a pizza place," the man said, bridging the distance, "is that you don't always have to worry about what to eat for supper. Hey, would you mind holding this for a second?"

He handed the box to Dan as he struggled to pull his keychain out of his pocket; it was still very warm, and a tantalizing aroma filled his nostrils, igniting his forgotten hunger.

"I hope I didn't make you wait too long," Spock said, looking at him with concerned eyes as he undid every lock from top to bottom.

"I only just got here, actually."

"Good. Please, _do_ come in," he said, ushering Dan inside.

Dan entered and rubbed his shoes on the mat as Spock proceeded to re-secure his locks. He then sped by in a rush, swiping the pizza from Dan's hands and telling his guest to make himself at home before disappearing into another room, leaving Dan on his own. He took advantage of his host's absence to attune to his surroundings.

The first thing that he noticed as he roamed the rooms was the huge amount of geek paraphernalia that littered the place.

There were representatives of every medium imaginable: action figures that lined the shelves, some unboxed and in mint condition, some posed, some simply standing there; comic books ordered by issue number and era; an impressive collection of films and television series; if it screamed of geek, Spock was sure to have a copy of one in his massive hoard. Posters of rock legends and movie icons plastered the walls, including one in the living room depicting the great Leonard Nimoy as he overlooked the living room from above the television set, dwarfing the rest in size. Dan was a bit of a sci-fi fan himself, but he was nowhere close to achieving this level of fandom; he was in the dojo of a veritable grand master.

The place was conspicuously clean, and very hospitable, much more so than Dan's place. While a bit more utilitarian, it was nonetheless nicely furnished. This, in addition to all the collectible items, suggested Spock was either good at sniffing out deals and bargains, or he had money to spare.

Dan explored the majority in the rooms, but there was one where he found the most intriguing item of the entire apartment: adjoining cork boards that took up a sizeable portion of the wall , with a header that read "The Great Altar of Truth". It was covered in countless notes, diagrams, news clippings, and various other bits of information. As he skimmed through the contents, which ranged from current world events to bizarre occurrences and conspiracy columns, he noticed that Spock had highlighted passages of interest and color-coded his tacks, instating order upon the otherwise chaotic vortex.

The sound of a toilet flushing heralded Spock's return.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he asked Dan. "I've been working on that thing for years now. It's my Magnum Opus, if I do say so myself."

They stood in front of the Altar for a moment, both remaining silent, until Spock decided to exit the room without warning. Dan followed Spock to the living room, and watched as the man sat down on one of the sofas and lifted the cover of the pizza box. Wisps of vapor floated up to caress his face. He then sifted through the multitudes of remote controls sprawled across the table and turned on the television once he found the correct one.

"I hope you like classic pepperoni and cheese," he said, beckoning Dan with the wave of a hand.

Dan sat down in the sofa chair across Spock and helped himself to a slice of greasy pizza. Not surprisingly, an episode of Star Trek TNG flashed on the screen.

"Thanks for the pizza, Spock," said Dan. "By the way, do I _seriously _have to call you that?"

"Well, my given name is Emmanuel Grayson," he explained, "but my _true_ name is Spock."

"Really? How exactly did you come to this conclusion?" replied Dan, slightly amused.

"Through the use of infallible Vulcan Logic, of course," he replied. "You see, my last name is Grayson."

"...And?"

"_And_, my mother's name was Amanda, Amanda _Grayson_, who also happens to be Spock's human mother."

"Well, what does that have to do with anything?"

Emmanuel's eyes widened, jaw agape; he couldn't understand how Dan was unable grasp this simple line of reasoning.

"Don't you see?" he exclaimed, stupefied. "It's too perfect a coincidence to simply throw out the window! When you've been searching for the Truth as long as I have, you come to realize that _nothing_ is a coincidence. Plus, I never knew my biological father, so there is a possibility that he might in fact be Sarek! Therefore, I _must_ be Spock!"

"Alright, fine," said Dan in concession, kind of uncomfortable. "It's cool."

But Emmanuel's words got him thinking. Dan never knew his biological father either. His parents divorced when he was but an infant; he didn't even remember the man's face. He had been raised by his mother since then, his father never deigning to make his presence known in their lives. There never was a stable male presence in the Thompson household since then. As he pondered this, he realized that perhaps he and Spock had more in common than he thought.

They sat for awhile, enjoying their pizza and cans of cold Coca-Cola and engaging in small talk, mostly about the potential conspiracy undercurrent of recent news. Whenever they weren't discussing something, Emmanuel's eyes were fixed on the screen in an almost hypnotic trance. Dan, however, watched with slightly less interest, as he had already seen the episode before. Once they had devoured most of the delectable pizza, and the end credits started to roll, Emmanuel closed the television and took the box.

"Let's get down to business, shall we?" he stated as he went to store it in the kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable by the computer while I fix us up some hot cocoa."

"I'm actually fine, thanks," he said.

"Alright, suit yourself," Spock said as he reached for a cup. "You're missing out, though."

Dan retraced his steps to the computer area, located in the room where he first entered the apartment. There stood a large L-shaped desk on which were docked three different monitors. Shelves loomed to his right, they too housing flat screen monitors as they sat on the desk. Against the desk on the left side rested a gargantuan filing cabinet, sleek and black, with many rows and columns; smaller filing cabinets were also stored under the desk itself.

Still standing, he then proceeded to make use of the computer. It was pretty impressive hardware; Spock, it seemed, was well-versed in the realm of technology. And yet, he found the computer to be surprisingly empty, containing only bare essentials such as internet and email, and a handful of basic programs. Spock soon arrived, delicately balancing two cups of steaming cocoa.

"You're not gonna find anything on there," he began. "It's too risky to keep my files on it. The system could be compromised at any moment, you know."

He departed once more, only to return a few moments later with an external hard drive.

"I keep everything safe in here," said Spock, displaying the piece of equipment.

He seated himself at the desk and plugged the device. Once integrated, he accessed it; a long list of subfolders filled the screen.

"Everything I know is stored on this hard drive," he explained. "I comb the Internet for articles and pieces of viable material, and then I upload my findings to the website I run."

He then took a sip of his cocoa, and his eyes widened. He let out a huge gasp, as though an epiphany had just struck him in the face.

"What is it?" asked Dan.

"Do you still have the footage from last night?"

"Maybe," he replied, summoning his cell phone.

"Do you mind if I upload it onto my site? It's one of the most hardcore pieces of material I've come across in my entire career. My followers would forever be indebted to you."

"I don't know if that's going to work," he began. "That plasma bolt-thing that nearly killed us totally fried my phone. It's been glitching out on me all day long."

Emmanuel took the cell phone and examined it.

"Hmmm... I think I _might _be able to extract the footage manually."

He plugged it in with a cord, and a few clicks and several code inputs later, he had successfully retrieved the video file.

"Ha-ha!" he exclaimed. "There we are. Let's take a look."

He clicked on the play button. It was crap quality (for Dan had a crap phone), and it wasn't shot from the best angle either, but Dan managed to make out the glow of energy shots and the outlines of Shapeshifters and armed men as they warred with ferocity. The battle wore on until an energy shot whizzed in their direction; static then filled the screen.

"Not too shabby," approved Spock.

He then opened a website; the title "Galaxy Truth" glittered on the top of the page, its silver letters pirouetting at regular intervals.

"_You _run Galaxy Truth?" exclaimed Dan.

"Uh, yes, yes I do," said a befuddled Spock. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm a regular user of your forums."

"Well, isn't that something," Spock said. "See, I told you that there aren't such things as coincidences."

Dan took another sip of his beverage, smiling at what was indeed a strange coincidence. He frequented a handful of discussion forums to discuss matters of Truth; he would've never thought that he would one day meet with one of their administrators. But then Emmanuel's words came back to him. Was it truly simple coincidence, or was Fate nudging him on his path, ordaining his encounter with the eccentric Mister Spock?

"Hey, Dan," Spock began, awakening Dan from his contemplative stupor, "by what name do you want me to credit the video?"

"Well, my username is Crow," he said, "so I guess you can go with that."

"_Crow_...I like it. It suits you well."

He pressed the Enter key in a ceremonious manner before swiveling in his chair to face Dan.

"Henceforth," he declared, "I shall evermore refer to you as Crow!"

"I'm not some kind of masked vigilante, Spock," said Dan.

"Well that's too bad, Crow, 'cause that's what I'm calling you from now on," replied Spock, wearing an ambiguous expression that made Dan question whether he was joking or actually being serious.

Spock collapsed the window and reopened the list of subfolders.

"So," he started, "where would you like to begin?"

"Well, I guess you can start by telling me whatever you know concerning those Shapeshifters and the First Wave," suggested Dan.

Spock nodded, and proceeded to search through the various folders. He then brought up various articles and pictures. Spock narrated as he flipped through the files.

"I first learned of the Shapeshifters when I followed a lead from one of my trusted sources around three years ago. Since then, I've been collecting data and tracking their movements. Take a look at this."

A picture appeared on screen. There was a Shapeshifter, lying on the floor, dead. Its face was sagging, as though it was slowly melting off. A stream of silver liquid ran out of a bullet wound in its head, which itself rested on a pool of the stuff.

"It looks like our little friends aren't quite human," continued Spock. "That silver goo you see there is actually _mercury_. Now look at this one."

Another picture popped up, showcasing yet another deceased Shapeshifter. This time, however, there was a laceration on its neck; Dan could see wires of differing colors interweaved within the muscles and ligaments drenched in silver and red.

"They appear to be some sort of cybernetic organisms," explained Spock. "Half _man_, half _machine_. They use these small rectangular devices to assume the identities of their victims. I've seen them in use before. Very gruesome stuff. But here's the most damning piece of evidence that I've collected so far. During one of my reconnaissance missions, I was able to record a part of a conversation some of them were having. _Listen to this_."

A little box opened on the screen and a sound file began to play, the waveform buzzing in concordance with the voices.

_"Any news from the Higher-Ups yet?"_

_"No, not yet, I'm afraid. How are the experiments going?"_

_"Honestly, not as well as they could be. Two more died recently before they could fully mature."_

_"That's too bad...What of the rest?"_

_"We've managed to keep the ones that are left alive using a stabilizing compound, but they're still too weak and won't survive much longer at this rate. Unfortunately, we haven't yet been able to find a way that will allow them to survive outside the Containment Fields."_

_"Well, you guys had better keep on it, then. We're falling behind on schedule for Titan production."_

_"There's only so much you can do, though." _

The dialogue ended abruptly at that point. Dan was still trying to wrap his mind around everything he had just been told, the clip simply adding to the tumult in his brain.

"I wasn't able to catch the rest of the exchange. I was in danger of being discovered, so I had to make a hasty retreat."

"What the hell are _Titans_ supposed to be?" asked Dan.

"I have no idea," replied Spock, "but I don't like the sound of it."

"What about those men that attacked the Shapeshifters last night? Do you have any idea of who they might be?"

Dan was now pacing to and fro, as he tended to do when engaged in deep thought.

"Well, they could be working for anybody," theorized Spock. "NSA, CIA, FBI, CDC; or perhaps more obscure groups like the Illuminati or even the Men in Black. I swear that I saw a Man in Black once; pretty spooky stuff, let me tell you. But in the end, I'd be willing to bet that they _all_ have some degree of involvement."

Spock took a sip of his hot cocoa.

"Okay, but what is it that they want? What _is_ the First Wave?" asked Dan.

"It appears that they have been infiltrating human society for a long time, possibly decades. The Shapeshifters are the First Wave, an invasion force, here to prepare Earth for the arrival of their leaders."

"What are you getting at, Spock?"

A very grave expression drew itself on Spock's face as he stared Dan straight in the eye.

"Romulans, Crow," he said. "Time-traveling Romulans."

A long silence ensued before Dan realized the ridiculousness of the statement.

"...What?" he blurted with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes," continued Spock gravely, "time-travelling Romulans from the future, here to launch a full-scale attack on the United Federation of Planets!"

Dan was unable to form a coherent reply – assuming it was possible to actually articulate a coherent reply to such an outlandish statement. It was clear to him that Grayson was muddling his obsessive love of Star Trek with the facts at hand. Dan started to question the credibility of what he has been told thus far by this man. Spock's lack of touch with reality was starting to gnaw at Dan's nerves; but even though the man was most likely afflicted by some sort of unwitting psychotic affectation, Dan tried to look past it. Spock knew much, and he brought Dan further on the path to answers than he would have ever reached by himself, and for that much, he was thankful.

Besides, he thought, Emmanuel actually wasn't so bad a guy, all things considered.

"Are you one hundred percent _sure _that it's the Romulans?" Dan asked him, playing along to see if he could get anything more out of the man.

"Well, I don't have any solid proof yet," Spock began, "but the use of Vulcan Logic has led me to suspect that..."

"Alright, Spock, I think we've had enough of Vulcan Logic for one night," interrupted Dan, rising from his seat. "Come to think of it, I should probably get going."

The bizarre aloofness in Spock's eyes suddenly disappeared as he seemingly returned to a lucid state once again.

"You sure you don't want to hang out for awhile?" he asked. "I got some board games."

"Maybe some other time. It's not that I'm not fond of your company or anything, but I had a long day."

"Don't sweat it, Crow. Come on, I'll give you a drive."

After Spock had disconnected his external hard drive and buried it in whatever dark recess whence it came, the pair left the apartment and entered the familiar space of the Oldsmobile.

"By the way, thanks for letting me upload the footage, Crow," said Spock as he drove. "My followers have been complaining that I haven't uploaded any substantial material for the past several weeks. This will probably give 'em something to talk about for a few weeks, at least."

"No problem, man. If we don't spread the Truth, who will?"

Spock nodded in agreement.

"I mean, these Shapeshifters are everywhere," continued Dan, "and no one knows or seems to give a damn. There must be something we can do about it, right?"

"Well," Spock started, "it just so happens that I have another excursion planned in a couple of days, and I think it would be fantastic if you'd accompany me. I could use a trustworthy Number Two. In fact... I think we should form a _team_."

"A team? You mean like... Batman and Robin style?"

"Actually, I was thinking more of something along the lines of _The Intrepid Spock and Crow_," replied Spock with flair.

"You know what," Dan said, "that actually has a ring to it."

"I know, right? So, what do you say? Are you in?"

Silence fell between them for awhile as Dan considered the offer. He tossed back and forth in his mind in doubt, weighing pros and cons to no end. But not even the loud bickering of his conscience could quell his inner voice, murmuring at first, and then soaring to a roar, as Dan came to a realization:

This is what he had been waiting for all of his life.

So he turned to his companion with a solemn face, extending his arm, offering a clenched fist.

"Put her there."

For a moment, Spock appeared flabbergasted. Then, a sheepish grin split his grey goatee as he bumped Crow's knuckles with his own.

"Yeah, that's what _I'm_ talking about!" enthused Spock.

The pair laughed in celebration, the forging of their partnership now complete.

"Watch out, Shapeshifter scumbags! Spock and Crow are out for silver blood!" howled Spock out the window as the brown Oldsmobile guzzled down the streets under the light of the star-speckled sky.


	7. Chapter 6: East River

Chapter 6: East River

The streets of Brooklyn were pulsing with activity.

Rivers of traffic rushed down avenues and boulevards as masses of pedestrians walked along their sidewalk shores in both directions. September traveled amongst them, blending into the crowd with masterful ease. He had been roaming the streets without rest for nearly two hours at that point. Even so, he wore on, each step just as tireless as the last. September had no notion of physical fatigue, having never experienced it in his entire life. He had never known sleep, either, nor dreams; he was always awake, aware, observing, just as his function demanded of him.

He stopped at a street corner to verify his MultiCell. The Overseer had sent him a patch that would allow him to track down the Beacon's destination. The coordinates had fluctuated wildly at first, but as time passed they began to settle into a fix set of digits. September could picture the Overseer now as he stood somewhere on the Southeastern tip of Australasia, programming the Beacon to compensate for the gravitational pull of the Earth's core, just as his agent was waiting for it to arrive half a parallel world away.

But several blocks still separated September from the Beacon's resting place. Its location pinged red on the grid displayed on the circular screen. He replaced it in his pocket and set off, crossing the road at the hectic pace of the civilians that surrounded him. Within minutes, the district of Williamsburg soon figured on the horizon. He was very close now, the red dot nearing the center of the screen. He cleared a winding path through the maze of asphalt and masonry, with only the square device to guide him, until at last he arrived at the Beacon's soon-to-be nesting grounds.

Obstructing the flow of Charleston Street traffic was a large construction site. A colossal crane towered overhead, lifting great steel beams with a mechanical grating that melded with the rumble of jackhammers and the horns of large vehicles. A legion of construction workers busied themselves this way and that, tending to their specific tasks. And in the middle of the area stood nothing but gravel, gravel which would soon part to accommodate a very special guest.

September checked his pocket watch; he had come to his journey's terminus a bit early. The Beacon would only arrive within the next ten minutes. He stood for a few minutes, watching the bustling construction labours from afar before retiring to the nearby East River diner. He seated himself at a table whose accompanying windowpane offered a splendid overview of the site across the street, suiting his needs perfectly. Classic tunes reverberated from the speakers in the ceiling. He removed his shades and hat and plucked a small leather notebook from his pocket. He then flipped it open to a blank page, and began his preliminary report:

_"Agent September's Report of Event 466920  
Location Sector Alpha-2 [Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York City]  
Time September 30, 2008 at 3:10 PM Local  
Event Type Major [Beacon]  
Objective: Monitor the arrival of the Beacon  
Observations are as follows..."_

The Witness extracted his binoculars and peered through them, gathering various forms of data from the site and transcribing them on the page. He started with verifying atmospheric conditions, and then proceeded to measure the site's telemetry before checking variations in physical and temporal constants. He was extremely thorough, going even so far as to tag every individual present by name; for the Witnesses could not afford to let even a minor detail slip past them.

September wrote down everything, not even stopping to look at his page. He had done this countless times before, cataloging pertinent details beforehand, observing an Event to influence its outcome, and then drafting another report showcasing the results. But in spite of his unfaltering professionalism, his anxiety still managed to seep into the pen's ink as it stroked across the lined paper. His mission had been without hindrance thus far, but just over two days waited before him. He had the sense that many obstacles would be thrown his way, testing his ability as a Witness; it unsettled him. When he was finished, he returned the notebook to its rightful place.

"Can I get you some coffee?"

He looked up to see a waitress approaching him with uncertainty, trying to greet him with a courteous smile in spite of being slightly taken aback by his appearance. She was a young woman, freckles peppering her fair complexion and auburn hair tied behind her head. September didn't reply immediately, as he wasn't in the mood for October's liquid love, but then thought against it; he might as well have something to eat while he waited.

"Roast beef sandwich on a roll," he began."Meat raw as possible. Room temperature water, no ice."

"...Gotcha," she replied as she took note.

"Do you have jalapeños?" he asked.

"I think he does..."

"Eleven of those please."

"Eleven? You got it," she said, perplexed.

She stood in place, seemingly waiting for further orders, but September simply stared, having relayed all relevant information. She took notice of this and took her leave with a nod, sharing a dubious glance with her co-worker along the way.

As for the bald patron, he resumed making observations on the site. The workers continued to toil, restless under the mid-afternoon sun, blissfully unaware of what was to come. September continued the taking of notes, bringing his notebook to his side once again. As he did, he began to feel a change in the air. He checked his watch to see the hands countdown the arrival. He summoned his specs; the readings began to fluctuate as he surveyed the area. It was almost there.

The waitress placed September's order on the table. She then peered over to see what he was writing.

"What is that?" she asked. "That language. Is that, like...Korean or something?"

"No."

It wasn't Korean, nor was it any written language known to man. In fact, it wasn't even a language; it was a code, written right to left, strings of haphazard combinations of lines and circles with a pattern known only to the Witnesses.

"Good," she sighed in relief. "I took Asian Studies at C.U.N.Y. I thought I really missed something."

She left once more to entertain idle chat with her colleague as September directed his attention to the sandwich before him. He undid the cap on the pepper shaker and dowsed the raw meat with the grainy spice. He then grabbed a bottle of Tabasco sauce and gave his meal a light shower. There was a smaller plate on which were laid the peppers; he took them too, splaying them onto the already scorching roll. He pressed the whole together before wolfing it down like a starving animal as the waitresses watched the disturbing scene from the counter. His insensitive taste buds could detect the infernal amount of capsaicin just enough to give the sandwich a delightful kick. The Witness finished the satisfying meal in mere seconds, much to the amazement of those who happened to have been watching.

Just as he swallowed the last morsel, he felt a faint vibration in his seat.

His specs displayed the same wily variations in readings when he took the device to his eyes, only it was much stronger this time. As he wrote his final set of findings, the diner started to shake. People in the area panicked; they fled in every direction, vainly attempting to elude a threat they didn't understand. The vibrations shook the foundations of surrounding structures.

Then, a huge ball of flame erupted from the center of the construction site, wavering skyward in a black column of smoke; the mighty crane collapsed into an adjacent building, crushing it under its weight.

The Beacon had arrived.

September sat unfazed in the midst of the chaos. Instead of running for his life and yelling his lungs out, he drank his tepid glass of water in one shot. Pinning his dues under the empty pepper shaker, he departed, arming himself with his fedora and aviator shades before heading out the door, straight into the heart of the tumult. The labors of the tradesmen were rendered in vain, their projects scattered and demolished by the force of the explosion. September waded his way through the debris, scaling the newly-formed mountain of rubble to happen upon an otherworldly sight.

A large crater stood where ground should have been. In its center, standing upright amidst the upturned rocks was the Beacon, glowing red and steaming from its long sojourn. It had a metallic surface consisting of iridium. Carved along its circumference was a groove that coiled around the cylinder down in a descending spiral. A faint blue light emanated from the groove, tracing the path from top to bottom. But the Beacon's most peculiar attribute September could feel now as he stood on the crater's precipice. It was vibrating, interchanging between a frequency of two and four megahertz. The waves went to work immediately, reaching out into surrounding space and slowly mending the tears in the membrane between worlds.

It was this field that prevented September from going any nearer. Even at that range, it made him his head feel light, and the closer he would venture, the more adverse the reaction would be. Coming into physical contact was out of the question; no Witness dared even think of touching it, knowing what it would do. September recalled the Overseer's words when he revealed the Beacon to his Witnesses for the first time, in the early years of their training.

_To touch the Beacon is to touch the Hand of Death._

September opened MultiCell and called the Arbiter of the Crépuscule Division.

"It has arrived," he said.

"Good," replied December, before hanging up.

September would only observe it from afar from that point. And he knew that during the next fifty-three hours, he would only be able to track its movements. But then he reminded himself that the Non-Interference Protocol was lifted, and that should it be captured by parties who were not meant to possess it, he would be able to intervene, assuring its safety. He imagined it wouldn't have to come to such a thing, however, seeing as October was off to deal with the Beacon's most pressing threat.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Several government agencies would soon swarm the scene, rivaling departments arguing among themselves to decide the fate of the bizarre object which lay nestled in the rubble. September took the impending arrival of the vehicular fleet as a sign that it was time to go; the last thing he wanted was to attract more attention than necessary.

He retreated down the swamp of bent metal and cracked foundation, making his way to the frenetic street. A horde of agents were shuffling about, following commands bellowed from their superiors as they tried desperately to control the situation. September moved under the cover of the crowd, appearing as unassuming as the agents that surrounded him. The concentration of people dwindled as he approached the outer rim of the mass without being seen.

That is, unseen by all but one; for as September proceeded to escape via a nearby alleyway, an agent had spotted him, and promptly grabbed two of his colleagues after speaking into his walkie-talkie to pursue the suspicious man. His cover was blown, but it was too late to return. He slipped into the alley with the trio hot on his heels. He paced briskly down the winding path, trying to evade his pursuers, attempting to take to the RLTB. Alas, he came to a dead end, and it was when he couldn't shift his location that he realized he was no longer unobserved.

He turned around to see the agents approach with guns cautiously drawn.

"Stop right there!"

September, having nowhere to go, complied.

"Alright, now put your hands in the air, _slowly_."

He did as he was told, placing his briefcase on the ground and raising his arms over his head. One of them approached and confiscated the briefcase.

"Due to suspicious behavior, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to detain you," he said, taking out a pair of handcuffs.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to detain you," copied September.

The agents were perplexed as September mimicked their every word.

"What do you think you're doing? Stop that! I gave you an order to stop!"

This mimicry continued until September began to say what they were going to before they could even open their mouths, a sign that he had successfully achieved Active Calibration, allowing to synchronize with observing their memories, their thoughts, their past, seeing the surmounting panic take hold of their minds as their control of the situation was slipping.

He reached down to grab his briefcase, causing the trio of agents to draw their weapons.

"Keep your hands in the air, or I _will_ shoot!"

The suited man halted, but then continued. Seeing that the suspicious individual wasn't going to comply, the lead agent pulled the trigger, firing a warning shot off to the side. Undeterred, September grabbed his briefcase, as though he had not even noticed. The agent shot again, this time directly at the suited man, to no effect. Thinking he might have missed, he continued to fire, each bullet inexplicably missing him, until he had emptied his entire clip. Only a thin wisp of smoke came out of the agent's pistol as the suited man stood idly, tilting his head oddly as he observed them.

The humans shared incredulous expressions, transmuting to shock as September outstretched his free arm to let a stream of caught bullets fall to the ground.

In his temporal perception, he could see the intent of one of the agents manifesting in her precursor. To prevent her from carrying out the action, he pulled out his Pulse Pistol and aimed it at here, firing a blast of blue-white energy that whizzed toward her. However, she had managed to relay a request for backup on her transceiver before the round connected and sent her careening into the brick wall, where she slumped to the floor in unconsciousness.

Taking advantage of their stupor, September immediately eliminated the other two in quick succession, knocking them out as well. He sheathed his weapon and approached the three bodies. December's warning in the Council chamber echoed back to him, about exercising caution when getting involved. September scanned the possible outcomes of the incident, especially now that additional agents were on their way. Yet he could not let these humans remember him, as the sighting of a Witness would become the object of an investigation; the ramifications might end up working against him, and as with all causal chains, it was better to sever them before they can amass enough momentum to engender undesirable consequences.

He worked efficiently, kneeling beside each of the agents and venturing into their minds, suppressing any memories of the encounter. Being unconscious, the barriers of waking cognition were disabled, allowing nearly effortless access, thereby saving on time. And it was time he had to economize on; midway through the suppression of the second agent's memories, the precursors of the reinforcements slithered around the corner.

Their footsteps were already resounding by the time September finished with the final body. Immediately upon retreating from the human's mind, he closed his eyes and concentrated, knowing that he only had a few seconds to escape before he would become observed, locking his wave function in place.

A contingent of five agents arrived on scene, securing the location just as the incapacitated ones were waking.

"What the hell happened?" asked the agent in charge.

"I...I don't remember. What are we doing here?"

September watched from above, standing on the edge of the building roof, having shifted his location with less than a second to spare. Calculating the outcomes of this incident, he ultimately determined that there would be no lasting repercussions. Still, it had been a close call. Additional caution would be paramount going forward.

He took out his MultiCell; the red dot had yet to move, so the Beacon was still standing in its entry crater. However, it wouldn't be long before Fringe Division appeared to take the object into their custody, and by extension, allowing it to fall into the hands of Walter Bishop.

The Witness was eager to meet with Walter again after all this time.

When the Beacon did start moving, being transported to a secure location, September followed close by, shifting from rooftop to rooftop where no one was watching.


	8. Chapter 7: West Fjord

Chapter 7: West Fjord

Unlike his colleague who, at that very moment, was taking the high road, October traveled the lower one, silently clearing a path through the streets of western Brooklyn. He had also been walking without rest for hours, delving into increasingly shadier areas of the district, until only the rare soul passed him by. This suited him quite fine; he preferred examining people from afar than mingling in their midst.

The neighborhood he was currently traversing was the picture of poverty, with dirty roads and cramped apartments with coats of peeling paint. At least he could move freely; in the same area of Sector-1, the neighborhood was encased in Quarantine Amber.

The Witness turned the corner and longed the brick buildings to his side as he progressed down the hill. The Proxies had determined the location of the only North Woods Group outpost in Brooklyn, centered somewhere in the outskirts of the neighborhood, which he was now proceeded towards, following the red dot on his MultiCell. On a street corner, he saw the fences that enclosed the large scrapyard, his final destination. With the aid of his specs, he zoomed in on the two-story building, where a large billboard bearing the words "Westford Scrap Ltd" was affixed to the building's frontal face.

He sheathed his binoculars and crossed the threshold of the gate. The yard was a maze of old and derelict cars, piled up into great rusted mountains that towered high. October weaved through the dirt valleys they bored, observing the warehouse from a distance. There were a couple of men keeping watch near the entrance, glowing hot white in the thermal lens of the suited man's specs. They spoke in raucous voices, trying to convince the other of the proper way in which to catch bass.

One of the men was showing off his preferred reeling method to his friend when a shot was fired. He looked over, only to see that his comrade had been knocked back by some sort of blast. He immediately drew his own weapon, a sleek Mini-Uzi, which he brandied back and forth across the yard, searching for the source of danger. He didn't have to look for long. The guard fell to the ground, the last thing he ever saw before dying being a suited man sporting a fedora and briefcase.

It was strange to eliminate a human himself. Usually, the Witnesses had the Hands tend to such matters, assassins under their employ who would take out targets when necessary. The suspension of the Non-Interference Protocol gave October the authority to do so himself, which was probably for the best, seeing as these NWG agents were a possible threat to the Beacon. Even so, looking down upon the lifeless bodies, he had a certain uncomfortable sensation he could not name.

The Witness did not linger long. He entered the door, seeing what awaited him on the other side. It was dark, and the light that was filtered through the grimy windows highlighted the swirling dust that clung to the air. A layer of filth covered every surface of the room. The walls were cracked in some places, and rubble scattered the dainty floors. For all intents and purposes, the whole place appeared to be abandoned. But October knew that wasn't the case. Pistol at his side, he ventured forth into the obscure halls of the building.

The first floor was empty, for the most part; he encountered a few men here and there, all of whom were dealt a swift and fatal blow, never knowing what hit them. He deduced the rest were on the second floor. One of them spotted October as he climbed up a stairwell; he was subdued before he could speak. As for his associate who came to investigate the source of the commotion, he managed to evade the bright burst of energy as it flew past his head and busting a sizable hole in the wall behind him.

October chased the fleeing man as he stumbled down the corridor, spraying the Witness with bullets when he wasn't dodging energy blasts. Still, the suited man pressed on, brushing the bullets out of his way as one would do with pestering flies, foreseeing their trajectory and moving his hand accordingly. The NWG operative was quite a nimble individual, vanishing around the next turn just as October would fire, leaving a scorched ring where his body should have been. The man stumbled into a large room, the heart of the NWG outpost.

"There's one of them... in the building...He's coming..." he panted, before being propelled forward by a bright blast, the Witness standing at the door right behind him.

The group of men in the room were shocked, frozen in place. It was only when October picked off another operative when they came to their senses and took cover behind overturned tables and large machinery. They were all firing in October's direction, but he was too fast for them, taking cover behind some crates as he fired back. The men were confused by their target's erratic movements; first he was in front of them, then to their left, then again behind them. The ability to move at a faster temporal rate was valuable asset on the battlefield; the Witness held a significant advantage despite being outnumbered by almost a dozen opponents.

"I'm going to get the Suppressor!" shouted one. "Cover me!"

October saw one of the men break away from the main group, running towards the back of the building. He was going to pursue him, but his path was barred by a storm of metal bullets and energy pulses; one bullet caressed his left cheekbone. He immediately caught himself and focused on the group of assailants, reproaching his momentary lapse in focus.

He hid behind a pillar, momentarily evading the onslaught. When the coast was clear, he marched forward, altering his temporal flow rate to move at great speeds. As he sped up, his subjective perception of time slowed down, things slowing to a crawl. Now that they were moving in slow-motion, they were much easier to pick off, and October was able to stand and shoot at them one by one.

He turned to the fourth assailant, where he noticed the man from before, standing some distance behind; he was in the process of activating the device, holding it forward like a remote, his thumb inching toward the button.

October decided to fire at him instead. He shifted his aim and readied to fire. He pulled the trigger.

Nothing came out.

It also occurred to him that subjective time had resumed its regular flow.

Seeing as the men were now aware of the Witness, they directed their attention to him, forcing October to take cover behind an industrial perforator. He almost stumbled over, much to his surprise; his head was light, and his body felt strange, weak. He poked his head out to fire at the enemy, but once more, the Pulse Pistol was not responding. More alarming was that the humans no longer had temporal precursors, and October found himself incapable of altering his temporal rate or even shifting through the RLTB.

Was the device suppressing his abilities? How could they possibly have devised such technology?

The remaining NWG agents continued to fire, with the device-wielding man barking orders.

"Don't shoot to kill! I want him _alive_!"

At that, they switched tactics, fanning out to try and surround their target. With his weapon now ineffective, October sheathed it, ran for the nearest fallen foe – or stumbled awkwardly, rather, for his limbs felt like lead – and took the deceased's firearm, shooting left and right with terrible accuracy as he stumbled back, trying to distance himself.

The others ducked and fired the periodic shot to keep the Witness on his toes as they formed a canvas down the area. The suited man was beginning to feel a bit nauseated and disoriented. Was this what it was to be a human, bereft of all the capabilities inherent to a Witness? Buried beneath his preoccupations, there was a passing thought that it was unpleasant to be so limited.

He saw something entering his field of vision. October swung his arm to shoot at him, but the man caught it, and October managed to fire two rounds toward the ceiling before he could no longer endure the twisting of his wrist. Unarmed, the Witness attempted to drive his free arm into his attacker's abdomen, but the man got in close and delivered a knee to October's gut, knocking the wind from him. The NWG agent then dealt the suited man a roaring uppercut, knocking off his fedora and sending him stumbling into the arms of another agent, who caught him and locked his arms, holding the Witness in place.

October jerked in vain, unable to set himself free. The rest of the NWG crew stood by as his attacker bashed his head with three successive hooks, upon which the Witness was unceremoniously dumped on the floor. The side of his face was on fire. Blood trickled from his mouth, but he was incapable of tasting it. And his vision was blurry, masked by a clear liquid seeping from atrophied lachrymal ducts.

John Mosley, Suppressor in hand, stopped before the defeated Witness, eyeing his impossible technology with a triumphant smirk. October struggled to speak, having trouble controlling his breathing.

"What...what have you done... to me?"

On Mosley's flicking of the wrist, two his subordinates raised October to his feet, holding him upright, which the Witness was only barely able to do. Mosley approached, using the Suppressor's tip to raise October's chin, staring at the sweating, hairless being with the drowsy expression.

"Nothing permanent, I promise," he answered. "Though if you're finding this uncomfortable, I'm afraid it only gets worse from here."

Mosley took a step back before delivering a vicious blow to the brow, sending his head snapping to the side, disorienting the suited man to the point where he didn't even see the second fist coming.

As the world succumbed to darkness, October knew no more.


	9. Chapter 8: Frequency

Chapter 8: Frequency

"Sooo...where to, fellas?" asked Simon Kowalczyk. "Marty's? Luigi's Pizza?"

"How about the Super Burger down by the Charles?" said Bruce Murray, arm hanging lazily out the window.

"That sounds alright, I guess. What do you think, Ken?"

Kenneth Miller was staring out from the backseat as the trio traveled down Silverburgh Street. People lined the sidewalks under the midday Sun, taking advantage of the pleasant weather. The driver's question pulled him out of his contemplative train of thought.

"Fine with me," replied Kenneth.

The driver acquiesced before pursuing his ongoing discussion with the passenger, leaving Kenneth to his own musings. He was the more aloof one of the group, head usually up in the clouds, dreaming up crazy theories which, coupled with Simon's wit and Bruce's mellow philosophies, allowed for very strange and labyrinthine discussions. Colleagues for almost a year now, they had formed a tightly-knit bond that arose from the experiences they shared in their line of work.

The surface of the serpentine Charles River sparkled with intensity as they crossed over the bridge, enrapturing Kenneth as he watched from above. His eyes skimmed over every speck of light he could perceive, shimmering like diamonds in the frothy currents. Rare were the things that eluded Kenneth's notice; he was known in his circle to be very observant. Simon often joked that Kenneth had the Jekyll and Hyde of the Eyes, as they would either be staring with intent or moving all over the place, taking note of everything in their line of sight.

The Super Burger logo now loomed overhead, revolving atop a tall pole planted near the entry lane. A billboard hung underneath, soliciting various deals being offered at the fast-food joint. They turned into the parking lot, which was bursting with cars as the by-product of Tuesday lunch hour. Simon craned his neck in an attempt to find a vacant space; instead, he circled the lot in laps, failing to find an unoccupied opening. The other two lent a hand, scouring left and right.

"There's a spot over there," said Kenneth.

"Where? I don't see it," asked Simon, squinting.

"Right there, in front of that bench," answered Kenneth, pointing the way.

The car was then swiftly parked into place, and the trio of young adults emerged into the brightness of day. The shop was crowded, half of the customers seated at tables, the other waiting in line, much to their dismay.

"Ugh! We should have gone to Marty's instead," sighed Simon.

As they waited in line, Bruce tapped Kenneth on the shoulder.

"Hey, Ken, look who decided to join the party," he said.

Kenneth looked over to see two women sitting at a table, smiling and waving back. The trio returned the wave, glad to see familiar faces. After ordering their food and paying their due amounts, they went to seat themselves at the side of their female friends.

"Well, well, well," said Simon playfully, "I sure didn't expect to find you ladies here."

"Hey, boys," replied the brunette.

As it so happened, they were also colleagues of the boys, rounding out the quintet. Over the course of the next half-hour, they engaged in idle conversation, eating and laughing, adding their voices to the restaurant's buzzing din as they sat in a sea of hungry, chattering patrons.

"Hey, Alice, do you know what we're doing this afternoon?" asked Bruce.

"I guess we're continuing the Frequency experiments," said Alice.

"Well, I hope those little mice are as excited as you are," cracked Simon.

"I think we _all_ know who the excited one is," said Kenneth.

They all chuckled, Simon tapping Kenneth's shoulder in fake reproach. Their banter continued in this style for some time, until the girls left, having finished their food long before the boys.

"See you in a bit!" said the other blonde woman, trailing behind Alice.

"See you later, Carla!" replied Bruce.

The quintet became a trio once more, and they quickly began one of their infamous tangential discussions, veering left and right as they discussed everything from comic book canon to current musical trends to recent advances in the emerging field of String Field Theory. But soon, they too had to leave, for their lunch hour was starting to wane. They hopped into the car and exited the parking lot, entering the rush of noon hour traffic. It wasn't too thick, thankfully; they drove at a comfortable speed through streets and intersections, making their way to Cambridge, where they parked the car to enter the arching gateway of Harvard University.

The yards were filled with students, roaming in small groups this way and that, or sitting on benches or under trees. Kenneth watched them as they passed by. He was a recent graduate of MIT, obtaining his _magna cum laude_ Bachelor's degree in Theoretical Physics. He was a gifted student; it's what made him an excellent candidate for the job, which had the added bonus of contributing to the acquisition of a Master's degree. Like his colleagues, Kenneth was selected from a pool of thousands of candidates across the country, and he had jumped at the opportunity when he realized who he would be working with.

Alice and Carla were already setting up equipment by the time Kenneth and the gang arrived at the laboratory. Kenneth quickly donned his lab coat and went to work, setting up the EMF monitor as the others busied themselves around the workplace.

The door to the lab was opened, and a man in this thirties appeared.

"Hello, Miss Warren," he greeted, shuffling into his lab coat as he descended the steps of the landing. "How are the preparations going?"

"We're almost ready to begin, Doctor Bishop," replied Carla.

"Good, good," he exclaimed. "Mister Murray, please fetch Test Subject Three for us."

Bruce did as he was told while Walter Bishop assisted in the setup of the day's experiment. Doctor Bishop was a brilliant man, with a powerful presence and ambitious aspirations. His novel and sometimes radical ideas have garnered him a solid reputation in the scientific community, particularly in the fields of biochemistry and physics. Kenneth had read many of his publications and had found them all to be quite insightful. He was man worthy of respect, and of Kenneth's he had aplenty.

Bruce reappeared, wheeling in a large cart upon which sat a cage housing a lab mouse, a label titled "Test Subject Three" plastered on its side. The mouse was transferred from its cage to a temporary plastic holding pen. As Bruce handled the rodent, the rest of the assistants busied themselves at other workstations, preparing chemical substances and calibrating equipment. Soon, everything they needed was at hand.

Walter returned to the scene from his office, taking large strides as he weaved through the tables and equipment. He deposed the folders he was carrying on a table, proceeding to revise their contents. Once he was ready, he beckoned Carla to his side, and she promptly appeared, armed with a pen and notebook. All the lab assistants performed a specific function in the Kresge Building Lab; Kenneth's was to operate the specialized equipment. At Walter's command, everyone went to their posts.

"Please note the date and time of the experiment, Miss Warren," began Doctor Bishop. "It is April 18th, 1979, in case you didn't know. This will mark the _third_ set of experiments in the Bio-Frequency Trials. Miss Brenner, if you please."

Alice complied, taking the lab mouse from the holding pen and placing it on an adjacent table. With Simon's assistance, she filled a syringe with a red substance – a select mixture of psychedelics and nootropics – and administered it to the mouse in question; it emitted a little squeal as the needle was inserted into its spinal column.

"We will now begin with Test Subject Three," said Walter.

By that time, the compound was beginning to take noticeable effects on the small rodent. Alice scooped up Test Subject Three – or as Simon called it, Mike LeRoi – from the table and placed him inside the Frequency Chamber, a large metal box with a transparent plastic face. After being hooked up with wires, Mike was placed inside the Chamber, leaving enough wire for him to move about freely once the mechanism was closed. As Mike LeRoi explored his new surroundings, lumbering within the confines of the metal compartment, Simon presided over the nearby medical monitors.

"Excellent," said Doctor Bishop, clasping his hands together. "Mister Miller, fire up the EMF Generator!"

Kenneth, already positioned at the generator's side, flipped the switches and turned the dials. It awoke with a deep hum, which grew higher as Kenneth gradually raised the frequency output. The research team watched the mouse via the Frequency Chamber's plastic windowpane. It was now tilting its head upward, sensing the electromagnetic waves in the air.

"Where are we, Mister Miller?"

"140 Hertz, sir."

"Any changes in cerebral activity, Mister Kowalczyk?"

"None yet, Doctor Bishop."

"Raise the frequency to 180 Hertz."

Thus did they work, raising the frequency by increments and observing their effects on the benumbed lab mouse, trying to discern any significant effects to its physiology. The first test subject, Harry Mason, had not produced any tangible results; he was irradiated by the higher frequency waves, and had died shortly afterward. As for Joanna Dark, the second subject, she had yielded some interesting results, but she too suffered the same fate as her predecessor.

The Bio-Frequency Trials were Walter's most ambitious ones yet. Doctor Bishop, though well-respected for his contributions in the fields of mainstream science, was always a strong proponent of research into more controversial avenues, most prominent of which was the untapped power of the human brain, much to the dismay of his academic peers, who did not share his passion for fringe sciences. Walter's most recent pursuit was in the exploration of a new theory, in which it might be possible to artificially amplify the frequency of one's bioelectric field so as to significantly increase the potential of one's brain, and by extension, one's consciousness. If the research proved successful, it would have profound implications for humanity; at least, that was what Doctor Bishop asserted.

"I think we're getting something here!" exclaimed Simon.

Walter shuffled over to Simon's side. Squinting, he reviewed the contents of the various monitors, then let out a triumphant laugh that rivaled the bellowing of the generator.

"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed. "Now, Mister Miller, raise the frequency only in small increments at a time."

Kenneth obeyed, turning the appropriate knobs with steady precision. At that point, Mike LeRoi was hobbled in the corner, shaking rigorously, wide-eyed, the fear evident in the increase of adrenaline displayed on the monitors and the small puddle of urine that lied around its feet. Apart from Kenneth, who was manning the generator, and Carla, who was busy taking notes, the rest of the assistants grouped around Walter at the monitoring station.

"These EEG readings are through the roof!" Bruce remarked, staring at the machine's needle as it scribbled furiously along the graphed sheet.

"What's the frequency, Mister Miller?" asked Doctor Bishop.

"Just about 1.6 kilohertz, sir," replied Kenneth.

Walter stroked his chin in thought.

"Hmm...Cerebral activity isn't quite stable yet. Mister Miller, I want you to raise the frequency one decahertz at a time."

At Walter's behest, Kenneth twisted the dials ever so slightly. The test subject was barely moving now, staring into space in paralysis; the others wore a similar expression as they analyzed the constant outpouring of data from their equipment. But soon, their faces turned to worry; a high ringing, barely audible at first, became progressively louder, filling the laboratory. The EEG's needle was going haywire, and the mouse's vitals were erratic.

"What's happening?" said Alice.

"These readings..." was Bruce's awestruck reply.

The lights began to flicker overhead.

"Doctor Bishop," said Carla worriedly, "I think we should stop the experiment now."

Everyone looked towards Walter. He stared at the monitors, considering his options.

"Not yet, Miss Warren," he announced. "We're too close. Mister Miller, please continue."

Kenneth nodded, and pursued his task, albeit with some degree of reluctance. He raised the frequency one Hertz at a time, twisting the dials with the precision of a clock's hand.

1.616 KHz...1.617 KHz...1.618 KHz...

A bright yellow flash erupted from the plastic pan of the Frequency Chamber, blinding everyone in the room.

The electricity went out, causing all the machinery to instantly shut down; a few of the overhead lights shattered. The EMF Generator fizzled, causing Kenneth to back away, protecting his face with his arms. He looked around, and saw that his colleagues were dazed, but not harmed.

"Is everybody alright?" asked Walter.

"Yeah...I think so," said Alice, helping a dizzied Carla regain her footing.

"Ugh...What in the hell was _that_?" said Simon, scratching his head.

Kenneth was glad to see that his friends were safe, but his attention was soon directed to the Frequency Chamber. He became transfixed with it for reasons he could not quite determine, and the world around him faded away. Curious, he abandoned his station and made his way over.

"The specimen!" gasped Walter, seeing Kenneth walk towards the Chamber.

He dashed in Kenneth's direction, his assistants hot on his heels. They grouped around Kenneth, who got there first, and were all treated to a bizarre sight.

Mike LeRoi was very much alive, but was completely naked; what fur that had not been burnt off in the discharge lay around his feet. Stranger still was the glint in its eyes, a look of keenness that belied its vermin appearance. Mike approached the pane, watching the group humans before it.

"What happened to him?" asked Simon.

Kenneth was the most intrigued by the animal. He had the distinct impression that the rodent was looking not only _at_ him, but _into_ him as well, its piercing eyes reaching into the depths of his being.

"Quickly, Mister Miller," said Walter. "We must extract the specimen."

Kenneth snapped out of his pseudo-trance and moved his hand over to the latches that secured the Chamber. But as he did so, Simon stopped him.

"Did you guys see that?" he said.

"What is it?" asked Carla.

"Ken, move your hand again," continued Simon.

Kenneth waved his hand in front of the panel, and to all of their amazement, the mouse's head followed its movement perfectly. Kenneth repeated the gesture a few times in different directions, and surely enough, Mike's sight never left the man's palm.

"Incredible," murmured Walter. "Not only has the subject's visual acuity been significantly enhanced, but it appears that its spatial awareness has also been heightened to a great degree. I've never seen such characteristics exhibited in _Mus Musculus_ before..."

Kenneth pressed his index finger against the pane, wondering how the mouse would react. It stood still for a moment, staring at it inquisitively, before reaching for it with one of its minuscule paws, placing it on the window opposite to the dexterous member. Then, to Kenneth's confusion, he began to see images in his mind, a pattern of vague, repeated colors.

Green, green, green, red.

Green, green, green, red.

He could barely grasp the series of green and red flashes, and they left his mind almost as soon as they had entered. Then the mouse's paw slid down the pane, and it rolled over, dead, leaving Kenneth to try and piece together what exactly had just transpired. As for the rest, they simply stared in disappointment.

"He's dead..." said Alice.

"Doctor Bishop," said Carla. "Do you know what happened?"

Walter didn't respond, buried deep in thought, while the others awaited an answer.

"No," he eventually replied, "but I _do_ have a couple of theories. I will have to conduct an autopsy on the specimen in order to confirm them. Miss Brenner, Mister Murray, you will be staying to assist me. As for the rest of you, that will be all for today."

After cleaning up what little debris there was, Kenneth followed Carla and Simon out the door, leaving Alice and Bruce with Doctor Bishop. Together, they exited the Kresge Building to emerge into the brightness of day. They strolled along the paths, each remaining silent in muse. The group came to a halt at the entrance gates.

"So," said Carla. "Do you guys have any ideas what happened in there?"

"Not really," said Kenneth.

"Poor Mikey," sighed Simon. "He was truly one of a kind."

For a few minutes, they made small conversation before getting ready to leave.

"Hey, Simon," asked Carla. "Would you mind giving me a lift to my place? I came here with Alice, so I don't have a ride."

"No problem," he replied.

The trio departed to Simon's car, parked no too far away, and they drove away from Harvard and into the moderately busy streets. Once again, Kenneth sat in the back, staring out in the distance as Simon bantered with their female passenger. His mind wandered back to the incident in the Lab, to the stark naked mouse and the pattern of greens and red.

It wasn't the first time that he had seen the sequence.

In fact, he has been seeing it for as long as he can remember.

Wherever he would go, there it would be, following him. Arrangements of random objects, colour schemes in posters and paintings and walls; the form varied, but the colours were always the same. He had been seeing it for so long that he had long since stopped paying active attention to it when it happened to cross his sights.

But this recent incident had revived his interest in the matter. What correlation was there between the mouse and the colors? Had the mouse actually tried to communicate with him? Was the experiment successful? Could there be truth in Walter's theories after all?

He didn't know.

Yet his inability to figure it out did not stop him from continuing to ponder the possibilities long after Simon had dropped him off at his apartment, long after going to bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever find an answer.

* * *

_A/N: This is the only Kenneth-centric chapter for The Arrival. Chapters of this storyline will be fewer in number in subsequent installments in proportion to the rest. This may bum some people out, but know that this was by design, and when it's all said and done, you'll hopefully be able to see why I took this approach. _

_And if you're wondering how something that is happening in 1979 has any bearing to the present of PTS (some time in 2008), well, that's the question, isn't it? *Shhhh* ;)  
_


	10. Chapter 9: Collapsed Into Place

Chapter 9: Collapsed into Place

The first thing October noticed was that he couldn't move.

It was only in struggling that he realized he was strapped to a chair. Everything was blurred, and a dull ache pounded in his head. He could distinguish the outlines of men as they busied themselves around nearby tables. His jaw was sore, and his vision was somewhat hindered by the inflation of his left eye.

The second thing October noticed was that he had not died.

Before losing consciousness, that had been his final thought. The Witnesses were always awake, always aware, from the moment they first awoke in Für Immer to the ongoing present of their existences. It didn't occur to October that he was losing his consciousness, not knowing he could, but once he felt himself slipping away, he suspected with some sense of dread that it would be the end of him.

It thus surprised him to wake up, finding himself bound to a chair. He had thought maybe he was dreaming like the humans did, but when he assessed his painful physical state, he suspected he might be experiencing a nightmare. For what was a nightmare, if not an unpleasant dream?

Once October realized his abilities were no longer being suppressed, however, he determined the probability of this being a dream was very low. Once more, he could perceive possible futures, see the temporal precursors of his captors; he also found himself able to alter his temporal rhythm. He couldn't use the RLTB, however, as he was being observed by two men, whose features were not yet clear to his eyes. But it didn't matter. He was as he was supposed to be, and he wasn't certain if he had ever experienced such relief.

That relief subsided almost entirely when a familiar voice addressed him.

"Good morning, sunshine!"

John Mosley, one of the two who had been keeping watch on October, propped himself to his feet from the edge of the table and stepped in closer, bending to one knee before the suited captive.

"How are we feeling today?" he asked, looking up.

October made to speak, but all that came out was a dry croak. Seeing this, Mosley looked back to address his man.

"Go fetch some water, will ya? This poor man is parched."

A minute passed before a plastic water bottle was brought. Mosley caught it as it was thrown to him, and he brought the uncapped bottle to October's lips. The Witness drank from it, lapping at it as it dribbled down onto his suit, almost sucking the bottle with the veracity of a newborn craving mother's milk; the water was cold, fetched from a cooler or fridge, no doubt, but October could not tell.

Mosley divorced the bottle from their captive after half of its contents had been siphoned, and October leaned forward, yearning for more, even though he had foreseen that Mosley would take it away beforehand. He recapped the bottle before sighing.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" he said, shaking his head. "I'd like to let you go; you know, go our separate ways, put the past behind us...but after what you did to all my fine men, I can't find it within myself to do that. We knew you'd show up eventually, though, so it's no big deal. And with you here, we have one less of you guys to deal with."

The Witness was baffled. How could the NWG have foreseen October's arrival? How did they come into possession of their Suppressor? Not enough time had passed for Passive Calibration to take hold, so for the moment, the contents of Mosley's mind were unknown to him.

Perhaps he could try asking questions, to see if Mosley might give indirect insight into these matters despite himself. The first question came to mind when October noticed something startling; four coloured dots were sitting on the edge of Mosley's black cap, just right of center.

The first three were green, and the fourth red.

"Those colours," he began. "On your hat. How do you know of this pattern?"

"What? You mean these?"

He pointed to the dots, then removed his cap, exposing his clean-shaven head. The man looked down to stare at the pattern of colours.

"It's my favourite sequence of colours," he said. "Made it a personal logo of mine. So you say you've seen these colours too, eh? Huh." Mosley seemed contemplative for a moment, not knowing he had given October his answer. "Well, let's see what else you know, shall we?"

After replacing his cap, Mosley rose to his feet and directed his men to wheel in some large equipment, bulky rectangular machines whose faces were pimpled with buttons and dials. One of the men took two wires and shoved one up each of October's nostrils, their edges scraping the linings as they were pushed in deep. After tuning the machine to the desired specifications, Mosley took a headphone jacked into a port and placed a bud into his ear, only to hear strong static.

"What in the hell?"

October knew very well that they were trying to read his thoughts by translating his brain patterns into speech; yet while they appeared to know of the Witnesses, they knew little of their physiology, or else they would be aware of the strong cognitive barriers present in October's brain. Even so, Mosley went ahead.

"What is your name?" he asked plainly.

He continued to receive white noise where there should have been words being played back to him.

"Is it something wrong with the machine?" asked one of his men.

"I think something's wrong with our guy, actually," replied Mosley. "Nothing a little jolt won't fix, though."

He turned a dial, sending a surge of electricity coursing up the nasal wires and into October's body. For a few instants, the pain was unbearable, and he tensed in his seat. The current was halted, and Mosley tried again.

"What is your name? Where are your friends? Do you know where _it_ is?"

October gave him static, and Mosley gave him another surge in return. But the Witness was ready for it this time, and was not only able to resist, but fight back.

He gathered his strength, beginning to direct his own energy back through the wires and into the machine. The first sign of something being off was the instant ring in the headphones, which Mosley quickly discarded. Then the machines began to hum, the graphs and numbers being showed on the small screens wavering and going haywire as October relayed a surplus of energy into its circuitry. They NWG crew was astonished to see the face of their bald captive start to glow a faint orange, the energy pooling to his head to be shot out through the nasal wires.

Before they could react, the mind-scanning machinery start to smoke and crackle; a shower of sparks was spewed from the dying equipment as it powered down, rendered useless. October stopped his effort, and his face returned to normal. He had never used this ability in quite this manner, but he was pleased to see that his plan worked. His vibrational state was greater than a human's, the atoms vibrating at greater frequencies, thus producing more energy; a Witness could direct this energy through his extremities, allowing him to interface with electronic and mechanical systems through touch.

October had never used his face to accomplish this energy transference, however. And he felt the difference in energy potential within him; it would replenish in time, but the ordeal had left him feeling a bit weaker than usual.

"What did you do to our machine?" asked a fuming Mosley.

There was no response from the hairless man. October tilted his head; he knew he was in the superior position in this interrogation, something Mosley saw in the bald man's piercing gaze.

"Think this is funny?"

"Think this is funny?" copied October.

Active Calibration was starting to take effect. By trying to actively copy, predict, and ultimately pre-empt Mosley's responses, October could sync his mind to Mosley faster than he could through Passive Calibration.

"What do you think you're doing?" they said in unison. "Will you _stop_ that?" Then October spoke ahead of his interlocutor. "Who sent you here? How did you find this place? Where is the Beacon now?"

The connection was almost strong enough for October to interpret Mosley's thoughts; just a bit more, and he would be able to scan the entirety of the NWG agent's mental library, shedding light on the questions the Witness had yet to find answers to.

But he saw Mosley's temporal precursor shift, previewing his impending actions.

"No–"

Mosley took out his Suppressor and switched it on.

At once, the bridge October had tried to build was severed, and his perception was instantly reduced to nearly nothing. The suited man's eyes widened and he gripped the armrests of his chair, disoriented by this perceptual castration. Mosley allowed his victim to squirm for several moments before disabling the Suppressor, returning October to normal.

"You'd best behave," said Mosley, brandishing the device. "Wouldn't want some more of this, would you? Get that thing out of here."

His men proceeded to unhook October from the defunct machine; an outpouring of blood trickled down his nose. As they wheeled it away, the Witness sat silent, his mind racing to find possible solutions to his current predicament. He was distracted when he saw another man flip through his notebook.

"Do not touch my belongings," stated October, seeing this.

Mosley turned to face his guest. "And why not?"

"They are not yours to touch."

An idea formed in Mosley's mind, and a devious grin formed on his face.

"Hey, what's a little sharing between friends?"

He made his way to the table, where October's personal effects were laid out; in addition to removing all the items October had on him while he had been unconscious, they had pried open his briefcase, destroying the tumbler lock so as to gain access to the hidden treasure inside.

"Let's see what we have here..." said Mosley as his fingers wiggled over the surface.

The first thing Mosley removed from the pile were the documents the Courier had delivered to them, photos of the Christopher Penrose Clones and the Proxy reports on Massive Dynamic's activities.

"Massive Dynamic?" said Mosley, grinning. "This will definitely come in handy."

Next, he picked up a small metallic case. Curious, he observed it from every angle, trying to figure out what it could possibly be. When he pressed on it, it popped open, revealing a pair of binoculars, startling Mosley in the process.

"Hey, these are pretty neat," he exclaimed as peered through them. "Has filters, too. There's thermal. And there's X-ray. Don't know what this one is, though."

He handed the specs to his comrade, who proceeded to peer through it as well. October's cringed slightly at the sight of Mosley and his men handling his sensitive equipment with such disregard. Mosley seemed to notice this too, and took extra measures to make his prisoner uncomfortable by casually fondling and juggling October's items. The Witness decided that he was not fond of this human.

"Hey guys, check it out," he said, picking up the notebook. "It looks like _baldilocks_ here carries a diary around with him."

His laughter echoed as he cycled through its contents, only to find what he perceived as senseless gibberish. He then tossed it on the table without a care. October was highly disapproving of Mosley's lack of respect towards his things, but he was powerless to stop him, and could do nothing but shift in his seat.

"Ooooh," said Mosley. "I really like _this_."

He removed October's pistol from the pile and slid his fingers across it, marveling at its design. He then aimed it at the wall and pulled the trigger, but, much to his dismay, nothing came out; unlike October, Mosley was not capable of routing his internal energy into the weapon.

"Well, _that _was a buzzkill," he exclaimed. "Hey, baldilocks, how exactly are you supposed to work this thing?"

"Do not touch those," insisted October. "They are not yours."

Mosley marched all the way to October's chair, bending forward to look him straight in his battered face.

"What are you going to do about it, huh?" he asked. "You know, I thought we were making progress here, but your attitude problem is starting to _really _get under my sk–"

October spat directly in Mosley's face, interrupting his sentence.

He saw it in a movie, once; the main character, after having been brutally beaten, had also spat at his enemy's face. The Witness imagined that it meant to be a display of defiance, something that he wanted to show to his current oppressor.

Mosley slowly redressed himself, wiping off the spittle with slow motions rooted in restrained wrath. But instead of giving into his impulses, Mosley simply turned on the Suppressor.

October's senses were limited immediately. Panic once again seized him; he had trouble breathing, and his mind's grip on the world around him slowly faded. Mosley let him suffer for a few moments before ceasing his attack, only to start anew, starting a torturous cycle of prolonged limitation interspersed with all too short instances of respite.

October struggled to remain composed, unwilling to let the human wear him down. The constant shifting between the normalcy of Witness perception and the sense of being exposed its absence brought was taking a toll on him. Was this how humans experienced their existences? It was so far removed from October's own experience that warding off the surmounting panic proved a near impossibility.

Soon enough, Mosley's patience had reached its limits; he sighed in defeat and boredom, seeing that October would not break.

"Handy little trinket, don't you agree?" he said. "Consider yourself lucky that I was the one they picked to use it; others might not have treated you so kindly."

"What do we do with him now?" asked a cross-armed NWG man.

"Well, he sure ain't going to talk," replied Mosley, staring at the panting, sweating, semi-delirious Witness. "I guess we'll have to look for it ourselves after all. We'll keep him here until the mission is completed. Then, we'll dispose of him." He approached October, again lifting his chin using the Suppressor's warm tip. "Hear that, baldilocks? We're going to have a slumber party!"

With that, Mosley tucked the Suppressor in the pocket of his beige longcoat and left with three others, leaving two behind, one who lit himself a cigarette while the other continued to peruse October's tools. The Witness was greatly relieved that the threat of the Suppressor had been placated for the time being; the ordeal had left him drained, and all he could do for several minutes is recuperate as his guards walked about, speaking in lowered voices while keeping an eye on their captive.

Eventually, October turned to formulating possible methods of escaping his current predicament. He was being observed, so he could not shift his location, and altering his temporal rate would accomplish nothing, as it would not make his bonds any less tight.

He would have to be far more subtle.

The opportunity arose when he saw one of them pick up his MultiCell, studying the otherworldly glyphs labelled on each of the dials, which were arranged in concentric circles. The Witness steadied himself, treating this as any other Event. First, he analyzed the spatial and temporal characteristics of the scene, eyes darting this way and that, taking into account any and all variables he would have to work with. Then he began his active observation, influencing the probability that the NWG agent would press one key over the other. The human had no idea that his choices were being narrowed down from afar, fingers guided by the strings of October's perception.

After pressing what he thought was a random string of keys, four circles appeared on screen, one after the other, from left to right.

Green, green, green, red. Green, green, green, red.

He wondered what the hell kind of function this was, but for some reason, he could not look away from the round screen. He wasn't even conscious of losing his awareness, the pattern striking some chord deep within his brain. October had succeeded; he had manipulated the probability that the man would input the correct sequence of keys to display the WOE Pattern, and his mind was rendered malleable, entranced in a hypnagogic state.

A state that October immediately exploited.

"Listen to my voice," October said, "and only my voice."

The smoking man regarded the Witness with a dubious glare, but when he turned to see his somnambulant friend, it changed to concern.

"Hey, Ron," he said. "What's the matter with you? Are you feeling okay?"

But Ron didn't respond, simply standing in place. The other man snapped at Ron's eyes, but it had no effect. He turned to the Witness, menace in his gaze.

"When I count to three, you will obey my every command," October continued.

"You'd better change him back," warned Ron's colleague.

October paid no heed. "One...Two...Three."

Ron's friend backhanded October, who took the blow without complaint. The man, clenching his jaw, walked to Ron.

"Snap out of it, Ron!"

Just as he was about to touch Ron's arm, October spoke.

"This man means to take your life. Eliminate him at once."

Suddenly, Ron sprung to life and caught the man's wrist.

"Ron, what are you doing?" he said.

Faster than the agent could react, Ron stepped in to strike him in the solar plexus before kicking out his knee, forcing the man to kneel.

"Stop–"

His message was cut short when Ron placed himself him and snapped his neck in one swift jerk. Ron released his associate, letting him slump to the floor, and returned to facing ahead, awaiting new orders.

"Release me from my bonds," October commanded.

Ron complied, coming to October's side and loosing the leather straps. The suited man was a bit cramped from having been seated for so long, so he savoured his newfound mobility. Taking his time, October reclaimed all of his material possessions, placing them in the appropriate pockets of his suit. He then proceeded to burn the Courier Intel, incinerating the photographs and the documents with energy directed through his fingers, for the North Woods Group was not meant to know of such things.

The briefcase was destroyed, so that was left there. The final object to be picked up was his Pulse Pistol.

"Thank you, Ron," he said before pulling the trigger on him.

He injected enough energy into the blast to overload Ron's nervous system, sending him into fatal shock. As the man died a few feet from him, October could sense the darkness that took his consciousness away, the same that had taken his earlier. Did humans see such darkness when they went to sleep? How could they know that they would ever awaken again? He was pleased that he did not require sleep; he would not dare undergo such an act with so much indeterminacy at play.

As October replaced his fedora, Mosley and his crew returned, having heard the shot of the suited man's weapon. Before Mosley could reach for his Suppressor, October opened fire, launching round after round of bright pulses, forcing them back the way they came.

He hunted them down, one by one.

October shifted to the doorway, firing upon the first human he saw. The rest fired back as they ran, but using a combination of location shifting and accelerated temporal flow, he picked the next two off with ease.

Only Mosley remained, firing back with his unwieldy pulse rifle in one hand, holding the Suppressor in the other. Whenever the NWG agent's precursor forewarned the Suppressor's activation, October would simply fire a round at him, not willing to let him use it against him. Yet Mosley proved very nimble, and the condensed energy from his rifle could not be swatted out of the way or caught like metal bullets could. This, in addition to October's unfamiliarity with the building, was the only thing Mosley had going for him, and he used it to great advantage.

October followed him outside the Westford building and into the maze of stacked vehicles. Yet he had trouble finding him, and Mosley did not hesitate to use the Suppressor, the field limiting October's abilities and forcing him to pursue Mosley via the inefficiency of physical movement.

By the time October emerged, Mosley was already in the process of getting away in his vehicle. Yet the Suppressor was no longer in effect. October fired at the car as it sped past; the shot connected with the rear bumper, tilting the car forward, which landed back heavily. Another shot impacted the side of the car, causing it to be knocked out of the turn's trajectory. Mosley was able to compensate, drifting in the dry dirt to crash through the fence and onto the street, narrowly avoiding a third shot and leaving October to stand in the haze dust left in his wake.

Should he pursue? It was certainly within his ability to shift to Mosley's vicinity and take him out. But the NWG agent was in the open now, in the world of humans; it would do no good to start sniping Mosley from the rooftops and cause a commotion. And there was always the ever-present wild card that was the Suppressor.

The only solution was to continue watching him from afar.

Mosley had emerged victorious, for the time being. But the moment an opening would form, October would not hesitate to terminate him.

The Witness took out his MultiCell and placed a call.

"I have disposed of the North Woods Group unit," he began. "However, their leader...has escaped."

"Escaped?" asked September. "What has happened?"

"Much."

October had no hurry to delve into what he had experienced at the hands of the NWG, and so said nothing more.

"I will continue to monitor his movements," added October. "Was the Beacon's arrival on schedule?"

"Yes. It is now being kept by the Fringe Division. However, it is probable that the NWG leader will make contact with Hybrid operatives to ascertain the location of the Beacon. Watch him closely."

"Of course."

With that, October collapsed his MultiCell and, unobserved, vanished from the Westford scrapyard as the sun continued its descent in the late afternoon.


	11. Chapter 10: Old and Older Friends

Chapter 10: Old and Older Friends

He had been sitting on the bench for quite some time.

In silence he lingered, watching those around him impassively. September's day had been mostly uneventful up to that point; having no immediate duties to tend to, he decided to rest while he waited.

Over forty-three hours have passed since October had contacted him, informing him of John Mosley's escape. During that time, September had continued to follow the Beacon's trail from afar. Its first resting place was a warehouse on the outskirts of Chelsea. He hid in the shadows, witnessing the arrival of his assigned Subjects early in the morning. Soon after they left, the Beacon was secured and subsequently moved to Boston. He had thought of this as a wise choice, having already foreseen Mosley's later raid on the warehouse.

He returned to Boston and oversaw the Beacon's transfer to the Kresge Building. He was walking in Harvard Yard when Walter applied a tuning fork to the cylinder; the ensuing increase in its resonant field caused September's senses to reel, as well as marking the moment where Walter remembered what is was he was supposed to do.

_Walter._

It was because of Walter that he currently sat on a bench overlooking Kelley's Diner across the street. The Beacon's specific frequency had caused instructions planted in Walter's mind to resurface. September knew it worked, for a few hours earlier his perception of the frequency had been abruptly cut off, a sign that Walter had successfully hidden it. He recalled that night in 1985, calibrating himself to Walter's mind and implanting the instructions the Overseer had given him.

But there was a part of those instructions the Overseer had not issued.

In his mind, September retraced the chain of events that occurred that fateful night at Reiden Lake. Diving into the glacial waters to save Walter and the Boy, shifting their soaking bodies onto the shores soaking wet, warming them on the snowy banks; all of it he recalled as though it had happened just the previous day.

It was on those shores that September placed a call to the Overseer, who was busy calculating the repercussions of Walter's crossover and saving him and the Boy. Mercedony noted that the likelihood that the Beacon end up in the hands of governmental agencies would only increase in subsequently planned deployments, in turn increasing the risk that it be exploited or misused. Given that Walter, a brilliant and eminent scientist, was highly likely to come into contact with the Beacon in the future, the Overseer thought it best to have Walter keep the Beacon from nefarious hands, if ever that should happen.

So with Walter still unconscious, September used Passive Calibration to sync with the man's mind, embedding the instructions deep within his mind, placing the knowledge behind a block only the Beacon's tuned resonance could uplift. Yet Walter awoke that moment, albeit briefly, and he became aware that September was connected to his mind, though soon after fell unconscious again.

That moment was all it took – that moment of mutually conscious connection – for September to experience a perplexing sensation. Walter was different than any other human he had observed; there was something about the man's brilliant intellect and soaring ambition and great sorrow that September found fascinating.

But there was more to it than mere intrigue. The connection they shared in that instance went deeper than that. The Witness felt strangely at ease in his presence, something foreign and familiar alike. Without thinking, he appended the instructions in Walter's dormant mind, telling him to meet with him after accomplishing his task if ever he did. He wasn't exactly sure why he chose Kelley's Diner as their place of potential appointment; it was the first place that came to his thoughts.

In that moment, Walter crossed September's mind.

Somehow, he had never left it.

He had visited Doctor Bishop a few times between 1985 and 1991 – the date of Walter's incarceration – so as to relay additional contingency plans on behalf of the Overseer. September's last visit had been shortly before Walter had been sent to Saint-Claire's. That had been seventeen years ago.

Would Walter remember him? Would he remember to come here?

There was no way of knowing. All he could do was sit, wait, and watch.

An old man made his way across the diner's parking lot, clinging to his peacoat as the wind pushed against him. There was a noticeable hunch in his posture, accentuated by his indecisive shuffling and the suspicious shifting in his eyes as they glanced warily left and right. Walter Bishop then opened the door and disappeared into the establishment.

September sat for what seemed to be a long time, frozen in a sea of perpetual activity. He wrestled with the hesitation within himself, concerned for the outcome of the meeting he had long ago set into motion. Taking a long breath, he seized himself and rose from his seat before departing to face the unknown.

He entered the diner to see Walter taking a sip of a fresh float of root beer. He removed his fedora as he eased himself into the seat facing the man, whose entire face lit up in bliss and reminiscence. There were many things he wanted to say to him, but when he tried to think of something to say, he could not. A very important question then sprung to his mind.

What _was_ he supposed to say?

As he pondered over the possible courses of action, Walter set down his drink, savoring his swallow of the frosted beverage, and then sighed with satisfaction.

"I haven't had a root beer float in seventeen years," he began.

Walter's declaration caught him off guard despite having foreseen it, but he was somewhat grateful for his initiative, as he no longer had to worry about having to start the conversation. Worries appeased, September replied.

"And?" he asked. "How is it?"

"Heavenly," said Walter. "And earthly at the same time."

"Quite the connoisseur," replied September, appreciating the superposition of polar imageries.

"Do you want some?" said Walter.

"No, thanks you. I would not be able to taste much, anyway."

It seemed as though Walter did in fact remember him, which came as a great relief to the Witness. But as he watched the aging man take another sip of his cool drink, he realized just how much Walter has changed over the years. Now a sexagenarian, wrinkles lined his facial features and his hair was graying significantly. His personality had changed as well, mostly because of the partial lobectomy he underwent while in Saint-Claire's; this Walter was more aloof, more childlike in manner. It was a stark contrast to the Doctor Bishop of old, but September found that his fascination with this human had not wavered in the least bit; if anything, it was stronger now than it had ever been.

"Seventeen years," remarked the bald man. "That is a long time to go without something you love."

"Where I've been, you lose track of time," he said somewhat somberly, though he perked up the next moment. "So much now to make up for!"

Walter bent to take another delectable sip. September found Walter to be remarkably lucid, despite the years he spent locked away in a mental institution. He was pleased to see that Walter was functional despite his circumstances. If it wasn't so, Walter would have never managed to fulfill his task.

"Thank you for hiding the Beacon," said September. "I cannot touch it myself."

Walter seemed poised to speak, but September interrupted him.

"I know you have questions," he assured him. "Soon, you will have answers."

There was only so much he could tell Walter, after all, even with the Non-Interference Protocol lifted.

"Of course," acknowledged Doctor Bishop.

Their conversation then simmered down, and silence fell between them, Walter enjoying his beverage and September simply watching. In any other instance, he would have preferred these contemplative moments, but he felt a bit uncomfortable. He tried to think of ways to continue the conversation, digging deep into his wealth of knowledge on human customs. According to various television programs September has assimilated, the secret to a successful exchange was to make inquiries on things relevant to the other individual's life.

He decided to give it a try.

"...How is he?" asked September after several moments.

Walter looked up, roused from his daydream. He seemed uncertain as to whom September was referring to.

"The Boy...how is he?"

His face brightened at the mention of his son.

"Oh, you mean Peter!" he exclaimed. "He's doing quite well, as matter of fact. I haven't seen him in a long time, of course, but I'd say he's grown up to be a fine young man. Although...I can't say he was as happy to see me as I was to see him."

Then a slight shadow fell upon his face.

"Not once did he pay me a visit when I was in Saint-Claire's... But then again, I suppose he has a right to feel somewhat coldly towards me, seeing I wasn't there for a large portion of his life."

"It is as you said," remarked September. "There is so much now to make up for."

"Yes...I suppose you're right."

A waitress came to their table, asking September if he would like something to eat or drink. The Witness, disinterested, declined the offer. Walter went back to his own musings, humming a little tune while he slowly sipped the remainder of his drink, now half-empty. He then stopped suddenly, midway through his song, with a concerned look on his face.

"The reason you brought me here...does it concern my son?"

September was not expecting such a question.

"No," he responded.

"Then why did you bring me here? Did I do something wrong?"

"No," repeated September. "I simply thought that it would be pleasant to meet with you again."

"Oh...Oh!" Walter laughed in relief. "You had me worried there for a moment."

Walter reached over and playfully tapped September in the shoulder. September recoiled slightly, having never been touched in such a way before.

"I now you must be a very busy man," added Walter, "so it's nice to know you're not _too_ busy to visit an old friend."

_Old friend._

The words rippled through September's mind. Did that mean Walter considered him...a friend?

He often wondered what it would be like to have a friend. He had observed countless instances of friendship before, but it didn't make the concept any less strange. No matter which way he analyzed it, he couldn't reduce the phenomenon to its basic components; but in spite of his inability to grasp the idea, an odd sense of excitement rose within him at the thought of Walter holding him in such high esteem.

Walter was nearing the end of his float.

"So tell me, Mister Watcher," he said. "How have _you_ been holding up these past several years?"

September was unsure how to answer. He was as he had always been.

"I am fine. If that is what you are asking."

Walter appeared satisfied with the answer, and proceeded to gulp the last of the root beer. He then placed the mug on the table before exhaling deeply with a grin.

"I don't think there's anything in the world better than a cold mug of root beer," declared Walter.

He brought his fist to his mouth, suppressing a monstrous belch. The reflex appeared to cause some sort of memory to resurface, causing him to stare wistfully out the window.

"Unless, of course, you count a fresh slice of tiramisu...or perhaps a platter of delicious hot wings."

"I like hot wings," commented September.

"Is that so?" said Walter. "Well, you certainly have a good taste for food. Have you ever tried jerk chicken, by any chance?"

"Yes."

"How about shrimp Creole?"

"No. But I have tried _vindaloo_ on many occasions."

"I don't believe I've ever had _vindaloo_," said Walter.

"It is a curry dish originating in India," explained the Witness. "It is very hot, and very delectable. Perhaps the next time we meet, we could go to an Indian restaurant so that you may try some."

"Yes," said Walter, laughing. "What a splendid suggestion!"

A strange and curious sensation began to form within the bald man; it took up residence in his chest, pleasant despite the physiological reaction. At that moment, September's pocket vibrated. He took out the MultiCell and read the message displayed upon the circular screen.

_John Mosley is in Boston. _  
_Six hours remain before departure. _  
_We should reconvene. Meet me at the departure point once the Beacon's location has been acquired._

September replaced the device in his suit, slightly disappointed that his exchange with Walter was being cut short. The old man seemed to be just as disheartened, but worried as well.

"I assume it's time for you to leave now," he said.

The Witness thought for a moment, considering his response. There was still some time left to spare. He didn't have to leave just yet.

"There is no need for concern," said September. "It is not a pressing matter. Would you like to accompany me for a walk?"

"That sounds wonderful," replied Walter, rising from his seat.

September took his briefcase and fedora and led the way out the door, Walter close behind. The pair then exited the parking lot and proceeded to trek down the long boulevard. A soothing breeze brushed against them at intermittent intervals, and the sun was warm and bright without being too intrusive. They longed the sidewalk at a comfortable pace, taking in the sights around them.

"It's quite nice out, isn't it?" said Walter.

"Yes. I suppose it is."

"If only I had something as stylish as a fedora to shield my eyes from the sun. No matter."

September looked over to see Walter squinting hard holding his hand to his brow. Noticing the man's discomfort, he took his fedora and held it outward.

"Here. Take it."

"Oh, no, no, no! You don't need to worry about me, Mister Watcher. But I do appreciate the gesture."

"It is fine. You may wear it for awhile. I do not mind."

Walter hesitated, then took the hat and placed it on his head with a childlike glee.

For the duration of their trek, they entered a cycle of speech and silence. Walter would shatter the silence with a remark or a question, delving into tangent after tangent; September would respond to the best of his abilities without giving too much away, before silence fell between them again. It was a peculiar cycle, but September enjoyed the sound of Walter's voice as he spoke of various things. And in Walter's constant vicinity, Passive Calibration made it increasingly easier to extract where Walter had chosen to hide the Beacon.

Walter's mental landscape was as intriguing as ever. It was chaotic, but there was an underlying order to it all. There were also great crevasses and chasms to be found, literal and figurative holes left after the extraction of brain slivers. September navigated with precision and great care, not wanting to disturb the delicate equilibrium. Upon finding what he sought, he retreated from the man's mind and brought himself at ease for the rest of the stroll, contenting himself to listening to Walter's rants about the consistencies of red and black licorice and the fascinating properties of herpes-viruses.

The pair had long stopped talking when they neared the edge of the highway. Walter halted in his tracks, causing September to look back. The old man appeared pensive.

"You know," he began, "there's something that I've always wanted to ask you...why exactly _did_ you rescue us on that night?"

September didn't answer.

"Oh, forget I said that," said Walter. "I suppose you're wouldn't be allowed to tell me anyway."

As Walter began to walk, September spoke.

"I had made...a mistake."

Walter turned around. September was hesitant to reveal such details to him, but he felt like he could confide in Doctor Bishop.

"There are rules that I am bound to follow," said the Witness. "Suffice it to say that I broke one of those rules, and that it was my duty to repair the damage I had caused."

Doctor Bishop approached him, placing his hand on the suited man's shoulder.

"I know all about breaking rules," he said. "And I know even more about making mistakes. I can only hope that I can one day make up for my actions, and be forgiven for them. I wish that you may come to find the same solace, Mister Watcher."

"...Thank you," was all September could say.

He was grateful for Walter's words, even though he didn't quite grasp their meaning. He verified his pocket watch; it was almost time to leave. And by the grave look on Walter's face, he had probably come to the same conclusion.

"It's time for you to go now, isn't it?"

"Yes. I must depart now. If you follow the median eastward along this highway, they will surely find you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure. Follow me. I will guide you there."

September had observed the highway from afar, and foresaw that FBI agents would eventually pass that way. He led Walter to the median, crossing the highway when no cars were around. Once there, the two faced each other.

"Well, I'll be going now," said Walter. "Until next time, I suppose."

Walter began to walk away, but September stopped him.

"Walter?"

"Yes?" said Walter, stopping to look back.

"You are still wearing my hat."

Walter touched his head, confirming the fedora's presence.

"Oh!" he said, rushing to the bald man. "I forgot I even had it on!"

Once he placed his fedora where it belonged, September spoke.

"Walter?"

"Yes? What is it?"

"Continue keeping close watch of the Boy."

"Yes, of course. Goodbye now, Mister Watcher. I hope we shall meet again."

Walter gave a wave of his hand before resuming his journey down the grassy lane. The Witness stood there for awhile, watching the old man shuffle along his way, hands tucked in his pockets, looking at passing cars. When he was sure Walter was safe, September walked in the other direction. Like Walter, he wondered whether he would have the chance to see Walter again someday. After some thought, he deemed the chances to be favorable, given Walter's status as a Subject and his relation to the Boy.

But contention soon gave way to solemnity as he returned his attention to the mission at hand. He input the coordinates of the Beacon's location on his MultiCell and sent them to October. Then, when he was certain of being unobserved, he disappeared from sight, focusing to change the probability of his current location to that of Kings Cemetery, to the grave of Robert Bishop.

_Goodbye...Old friend._


	12. Chapter 11: CounterInfiltration

Chapter 11: Counter-Infiltration

Dan swiveled in his chair, resting his feet on the desk once his momentum had dissipated. He had been waiting for an hour at that point, and he was becoming increasingly restless and impatient; the only things abating his boredom were a Rubix cube and the Galaxy Truth website. He twisted the rows and columns of the cube with an absent mind, putting no effort in to actually solving it.

It was Friday night, though Spock had yet to arrive at Dan's apartment. He was starting to doubt whether the man would actually show up, or if he had simply forgotten him; it was hard to tell anything about the man. Dan took another swig of Coca-Cola and continued to read the long list of posts on the computer screen. Just as Spock had predicted, the video had caused an uproar in the small forum community. Dan became somewhat of an overnight celebrity, with many comments praising Crow's efforts, something he found to be rather flattering. It was not enough to curb his growing impatience, however, and with another sigh, he picked up his cube, observing all of its faces with disinterest. One side had three green rows and a red one at the bottom, a pattern that was particularly alluring.

A familiar chugging noise rumbled from his open window. Peering outside, he saw a brown Oldsmobile park itself beside the sidewalk. A smile immediately drew itself upon his face, and he hurried out the door and down the stairs to greet his partner in righteous crime. By the time he made it to the building's entrance, Spock was rummaging around in the trunk. When he arrived by his side, Spock suddenly burdened him with a deceivingly heavy backpack.

"Help me bring these inside, will ya?" said Spock.

"It's nice to see you too, Spock" replied Dan.

Not having much of a choice, Dan carried the bag up to the second floor. Spock trailed close behind him with his own luggage up the stairs. Once inside, Dan placed it on the living room table, rubbing his shoulder.

"So, what exactly is in these things?" asked Dan.

"I'll show you in a second," replied Spock, squeezing awkwardly through the doorway with a grunt while he carried his bags.

Spock took off his shoes, chucked his things onto the couch, and let himself collapse into the nearby sofa chair. Dan contented himself to sit on the couch's arm, seeing as their bags took up all the cushion space. Spock leaned forward in his seat.

"I like your place, Crow," he said. "It's quite cozy."

"Uh, thanks," replied Dan. "So, do you want anything to eat or drink?"

"No thanks. I had some Count Chocula before heading down here."

Dan raised a dubious eyebrow before continuing.

"So, Spock," he asked. "What have you brought for us today?"

"Ah, yes, the bags."

He took the one on the table and unzipped it. Reaching in, he removed its contents: a mass of dark-colored clothing, which he then sprawled over the table's surface.

"I brought some stuff for you too," explained Spock, "but I don't know if they'll fit you or not. Those jeans you have on look dark enough, though. Do you have a plain black shirt, by any chance?"

"Yeah, I think I do."

"Good," said Spock. "Because I'm sure as hell not letting you come along with that red shirt you're wearing."

Dan smirked at the reference, even though Spock appeared deadly serious. He retired from the living room to go sift through his clothes. He returned donning a black shirt he found deep within the bowels of his closet. Spock was slipping a hoodie over his current apparel when Dan sat down on the couch.

"That's perfect," said Spock, commenting on his partner's garb. "Here, take this."

He handed Dan one of the backpacks.

"I took the liberty of packing you a kit."

Curious, Dan peeked inside, taking note of what he had. Within its various pouches, he found a walkie-talkie, a flashlight, a pair of binoculars, and a Swiss Army knife, among other essentials. As he familiarized himself with his equipment, Spock was busy checking his own pack, which housed similar items. After both men had double-checked their stock, Spock put on a black beanie, and handed a similar one to Dan. Just as he was about to place it on his head, he noticed the inside was lined with a metallic sheet.

"Is that...aluminum foil?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes," confirmed Spock. "It's best to be prepared for every possibility. You never know who could be watching."

Dan opened his mouth to object, but thought against it, biting his tongue. As uncomfortable as the hat was, he figured it was a small price to pay for the opportunity of a lifetime. And though he wasn't quite sure Spock was as lucid as he probably should be, he seemed to know what he was doing.

Or so Dan hoped.

"It's almost eleven thirty," said Spock, glancing at his watch. "We should get going."

The duo grabbed their things. Spock waited at the entrance while Dan shut off the lights, and they exited the apartment, with Dan promptly locking the door behind him. They descended the staircase, trying to make as little noise as possible and emerged from the complex. Dan entered the Oldsmobile, placing his pack in the space under the glove box. When everything was in place, they sped off into the night, guided only by the glares of streetlights.

"I think now would be a good time to tell me where exactly we're going," said Dan after awhile.

"Oh, right!" exclaimed Spock. "I almost forgot. I'm accustomed to riding solo, so you'll have to forgive me."

He instructed Dan to reach into one of the bags in the rear of the car and search for a folder, which Dan soon found.

"Alright, so here's the situation, Crow," began Spock. "For the past several months, I've been keeping surveillance on possible First Wave hotspots. What you have in your hands are photographs depicting another location that I suspect of being linked to the Shapeshifters."

Dan flipped through the folder's photographs, each framing the same inconspicuous building from various angles. In one picture, the name "Ex-Tech" was engraved on a plaque over the store's entryway.

"What's so special about this place?" asked Dan.

"Around a month ago, I went there to see what they had in stock. As I browsed the selection, another guy walks into the store. Then," said Spock in an ominous tone, "he asked the clerk for a WM-DD7 Walkman."

"So?"

"That model doesn't exist," answered Spock. "The D-series went from DD3 straight to DD9."

"Wait, what?" said Dan, not quite sure if he heard him correctly.

"Yeah, I know, right? Anyway, the clerk looks at me suspiciously and then brings the guy in the back. I tried to move closer to hear what they were talking about, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. Several minutes later, the Mystery Customer leaves the store with a briefcase. In order seem less suspicious, I purchased a cheap Polaroid camera and peeled."

"That's quite the story, Spock," said Dan after some thought. "But how do can you be sure that these guys are First Wave?"

"I can't guarantee anything, unfortunately. It might be First Wave, but there's just as big of a chance that these guys are something else entirely. But we'll never discover the Truth if we don't investigate these strange circumstances, will we?"

"I suppose you're right."

"Oh, by the way," added the driver, "since I'm the more experienced one here, I'm going to ask that you follow my commands. If I say we go right, we go right. If I say we go left, we go left. Cool?"

"So I'm basically your Number One, is that it?"

"Not yet, but if you can prove yourself tonight, I might consider a promotion."

"Fair enough."

They soon arrived at their destination, making a left on Werner Street and parking on the side of the road, nestled between surrounding cars. Spock turned off the Oldsmobile, letting the darkness seep inside, concealing them from prying eyes. He then withdrew a pair of binoculars from his bag, peering through them. Dan did the same, scrutinizing the store's exterior; there was nothing worth noting, save perhaps the _Closed_ sign and the deals advertised in the window.

"Are you ready for this?" asked Spock.

"You know it."

They emerged into the crisp midnight air, bringing their equipment with them. After locking the doors, Spock glanced over, tapping the car's roof.

"Alright," he said. "Let's go!"

The dark-clad duo slipped into the night, crossing the street and taking to the alleys. Soon enough, they arrived at the rear of Ex-Tech; only a single red door adorned the brick wall. Spock knelt in front of it, and removed a small kit from his backpack.

"Hey, give me some light over here, Crow!"

Dan complied, illuminating the door's lock with his flashlight, keeping watch behind them. After several moments of adept lock-picking maneuvers, the door unlocked with a satisfying click.

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed Spock triumphantly.

He slowly opened the door, and once the coast was deemed clear, the pair slipped inside, disappearing from sight. As soon as they entered, Spock turned on his own flashlight before venturing deeper into the store. They first explored the front of the store, where many bins and shelves awaited, stocked with a variety of items, precursors to modern technology rendered obsolete by time. As Dan searched for anything that might be out of place, a muffled noise suddenly resounded from his backpack.

_"Spock to Crow, Spock to Crow! Do you read? Over."_

He fumbled for his walkie-talkie before responding.

_"Jesus, Spock! You scared the crap out of me!"_

_"Sorry about that. Did you find anything yet? Over."_

_"No, not yet."_

_"Alright. Let's check out the back. Over."_

The pair proceeded with caution to the rear of the store, moving behind the sales counter and into a small office. As Spock began to flip through the filing cabinets, Dan investigated the documents piled on the desk before checking its drawers, finding nothing of interest save a single key, which he kept in his pocket after showing it to his partner.

"I'm going to take a look in the storage room," said Dan.

"Alright," said Spock. "Keep me posted."

Dan slipped through the door, making his way down the small hallway to the storage room. The narrow beam of his flashlight pierced the shadows, forcing them to recede out of his way. Metallic aisles housed rows of boxes, all filled with extra copies of things Dan had already seen in the front of the store. Still, he waded through the cluttered chamber, making sure to scour its every inch. It was at the very end of the room where he found a door, sitting in the corner. Just as Dan had surmised, it was locked; he whipped out his walkie-talkie and informed Spock of his find.

_"Hey Spock, do you read?"_

_"What is it? Over."_

_"I found a locked door in the storage room. I think we should check what's behind it."_

_"Alright, I'll be there shortly. Over."_

Spock appeared swiftly, walking with stealth amid the rows of inventory. Once at the door, he knelt beside it and once again summoned his lock-picking kit. After several moments of fumbling with his tool set, the door was unlocked. The duo shared an apprehensive glance before the opening it. On the other side lay a narrow staircase, disappearing into an impenetrable darkness.

"Nice," said Spock. "Let's take a look, shall we?"

They ventured downwards, the wooden steps creaking from their weight. They emerged in the basement, a dank and dark place, sliced by the beams of their flashlights. There were boxes piled here and there, covered in a film of dust and grime. They could see the intricate network of pipes overhead, some of which were dripping, making small puddles on the concrete floor. Dan flashed his light in a corner, scaring a mouse back into its hole.

"Hey, I think I found the light switch," said Spock.

He turned it on, and a couple of fluorescent lamps lit up, buzzing faintly as they illuminated the room. The room was somewhat smaller than Dan had originally pictured. He could see everything clearer now, from the cobwebs that adorned the ceiling to the dust scattered across the concrete floor. But of all the things in the room, he was most drawn to the single door that rested at the very end of the basement; a fluorescent light flickered over it, adding a foreboding quality to its dull sheen.

"That is one creepy door," commented Dan as they walked up to it.

"Huh," said Spock, looking closely. "There's some sort of symbol on it."

"It kind of looks like a horseshoe or headphones," remarked Dan.

"It looks more like a representation of Omega," said Spock. "Or a variant of it, anyway."

"Do you think you can pick the lock?" asked Dan.

"Sure, just give me a moment."

Dan watched as his partner tried his hand at unlocking the door. But his repeated assaults were of no use; he kept on fumbling with his tools as they failed to open the door.

"Damn it!" said Spock. "It won't budge. What kind of lock is this?"

"Hold on," said Dan. "I found a key in the office desk earlier."

"I guess it's worth a shot."

He moved aside, allowing access to the keyhole. Taking a deep breath, Dan inserted the key into the lock. They were surprised to see it slide without struggle, allowing them to unlock the door. Uncertain of what lied ahead, Dan turned the knob. The door opened with a metallic squeal, giving way to a barren concrete corridor; the ceiling was interspersed with small light bulbs that lit the way.

"Dude!" said Dan. "Do you see what I'm seeing?"

"This is pretty hardcore," replied Spock.

"I say we see where this leads."

Dan was ready to continue, but Spock seemed to hesitate.

"I don't know, Crow," he said. "We're not properly equipped for this. Who knows what we'll find down there? It's too risky. Plus, I'm getting some freaky-ass vibes from this place."

"We're too far in to just back out now," said Dan. "Besides, we'll never discover the Truth if we don't investigate these strange circumstances, will we?"

"Alright, we'll go," conceded Spock, not entirely pleased with having his own words used against him. "But at the first sign of trouble, you say the code-phrase and we pull out. Is that clear?"

"Understood. What's the code-phrase?"

"It's '_Beam me up_'."

"_Right_."

With that, they pushed onwards down the ominous corridor, armed only with the keenness of their senses. They followed the twists and turns of the subterranean tunnel, when the path abruptly split in opposing directions. The duo argued over which way to proceed, but they soon noticed the Omega symbol from the door carved onto the wall, offset slightly to the left. Theorizing that the symbol denoted the proper path, they took the left hand path. They continued in this manner for some time, venturing this way and that, the symbol leading them deeper into the unknown at every junction.

After awhile, they came upon a door, sitting atop a metal staircase. They scaled it and, once through, they emerged on a cement platform. A railway sat in front of them on the track below, extending beyond view in either direction, fading into darkness.

"Looks like an abandoned subway tunnel," said Dan, analyzing his surroundings.

"Yeah, but I don't see that symbol anywhere," stated Spock, waving his flashlight around.

"We should split up and look for it. It can't be too far."

"Good idea, Crow. You go that way, and I'll go this way. Contact me if you find anything."

Dan proceeded down his assigned route. Soon, the echo of Spock's footsteps faded away, leaving him to brave the cold tunnel by himself. The atmosphere was unsettling. Every noise he heard made him cock his head in alert. Shadows danced on the walls at the behest of his flashlight; he had never been fond of shadows. Even so, he forced himself to remain vigilant, though much to his displeasure, nothing was to be found.

_"Spock to Crow! Do you read?"_

The sudden voice caused Dan to jump,

"_What's up?"_

"_I found a passage with the symbol beside it. It's not too far from where we entered. I'll wait for you here. Over."_

At the news of Spock's discovery, Dan swiftly retraced his steps, relieved, gauging his speed so that he wouldn't fall off the concrete ledge. Shortly after passing the door from whence they came, he spotted the beam of a flashlight on the other side of the track. He hopped down and crossed over, rejoining his partner at the opening where he stood. The mysterious symbol was plastered next to it in black, complete with drip markings characteristic of spray-paint.

"We're probably getting close," said Spock. "Keep your eyes peeled."

They entered the passage, hugging the walls as they went. Dan quickly adapted to Spock's various hand gestures, signalling when to stop and when it was clear to go ahead. He found his partner to be surprisingly stealthy, making little noise as he shuffled along. After traversing a few staircases and passing by some doors, they arrived in an open area. There were a couple of tables in the room, parsed with playing cards and some newspaper, among other things. A small television set sat in the corner, on which a late-night talk show was playing. And on the back wall was drawn the symbol, etched in black.

"Looks like we hit the jackpot," said Dan.

"Don't get too comfortable, Crow," warned Spock. "We're in enemy territory now."

Dan nodded, dismissing his initial excitement to focus on the task at hand. They began by exploring the surrounding rooms. There was a small kitchen in one, where fresh fruit, bottled water and capsules filled with silver liquid abound. In another, they found nothing but a table, upon which stood an old typewriter and a mirror, which for some reason made for a disquieting sight.

They continued down a corridor branching from the main room. In an open chamber, they found some tables, along with file cabinets. Spock proceeded to pick their locks, gaining access to the stores. He let Dan peruse the first one before moving onto others. He found some mundane files, detailing things like inventory and financial transactions, but there were also more obscure things, such as lists of Insertion and Extraction Points. But the most interesting find of all was a file whose front page bore the name PROJECT TITAN. Another one was called PROJECT HYBRID, which definitely caught his attention.

"Dude, check it out!" said Dan, flipping through the documents. "Looks like these guys are First Wave after all."

"So my suspicions were correct all along," mused Spock. "In that case, we should procure ourselves some of this Intel."

They opened their packs in unison and began placing files of interest inside. Dan took whatever caught his eye, things labelled Predicted Synchronizations and PROJECT HARVESTER, among other things. After they've had their fill, they delved deeper into the Shapeshifter complex. The next room they found was much larger, a spacious area where various pieces of equipment and large boxes were stockpiled.

"You'd think that a Shapeshifter lair would have guards or something," remarked Dan.

"Maybe it's an abandoned site," posited Spock.

He seemed to have spoken too soon, for the moment Spock finished his sentence, he froze. Dan noticed and stopped as well. He then heard some faint footsteps resound from the corridor behind them.

"Crap! They're coming!" whispered Spock. "Hide!"

The pair darted to the other end of the room, looking frantically for cover. Dan crouched behind a large crate while Spock opted to slide behind the one across from him. Three men then arrived, transporting large containers on trolleys. A fourth man trailed behind them; he seemed ill, and was walking with a pronounced limp.

"...So _then_, these two jackasses run me over, and I land square on my Conversion Device, breaking it in the process."

"Damn, man," said the tall one. "I suppose you've got no choice now but to request for Extraction, now."

"That's probably going to be out of the question," continued the first one. "Thanks to those ZFT jackasses, not only was most of my squad wiped out, but we missed the deadline on the _Arcand _assignment."

"Hey, don't worry about it too much, Carter," said the third man. "You'll be back home and repaired before you know it. Why don't you help yourself to some M-shots in the kitchen? Might be just the thing you need to cheer you up."

Carter complied, leaving the premises. As for the other two, they brought their load to another section of the repository, and began to unload the weaponry contained inside. When they weren't looking, Dan scurried over to Spock's side.

"How the hell are we supposed to get back _now_?" whispered Dan worriedly.

Spock stayed silent; his eyes darted to and fro as possible courses of action formulated in his mind.

"Alright," said Spock at length, "here's the plan. We sneak up behind them, and take them out when they're not looking."

"I saw a Shapeshifter take a plasma blast to the chest without so much as a flinch," said Dan. "Something tells me it'll take more than a Vulcan nerve pinch to bring them down."

"Well, what are you suggesting, Crow? That we hold hands and skip our merry way out of here?"

"No," stated Dan. "We'll have to sneak past them and go back the way we came in. It's the only option we have at this point."

"Alright," said Spock begrudgingly. "Follow my lead."

When the backs of the enemy were turned, Spock made a beeline for the nearest sizeable object. He checked again, and when the coast was clear, he beckoned his partner over with his hand. Seeing this, Dan took a long breath, then crouched over to Spock's location. In this way they proceeded, with Spock leading the way and Dan staying close behind, inching their way to their destination. It was a lengthy procedure, as the Shapeshifters kept going back and forth between their work stations, but the corridor they sought drew nearer with every step. There were a couple of close calls with the Shapeshifters wandered near their hiding spots, but disaster was thankfully averted.

At last, they made it to the corridor. Breathing a sigh of relief, they picked up the pace back up their previous trail. But as they looked back, making sure they weren't spotted, they bumped into something. Regaining their ground, their faces turned white as Carter struggled to prop himself up. His eyes widened in shock as well, bewildered by the familiar sight.

"You?" exclaimed Carter, perplexed.

The Shapeshifter then reached for the pistol holstered on his belt. Without a second thought, Dan dove onto Carter, wrestling for possession of the weapon. Even in his impaired state, Carter was surprisingly strong. Dan attempted desperately to pry the gun from the man's hands as he tried to shoot him back, causing Spock to run around trying to dodge the fired rounds. But Carter was weakened; with great effort, Dan took the weapon, and, aiming at the forehead, fired, killing the Shapeshifter instantly.

At that moment, the other two appeared around the corner, wielding their own weapons, which they aimed at the intruders.

"Damn it!" yelled Dan. "Run!"

They fled down an adjacent corridor, fear and adrenaline fueling their frantic strides. They wound left and right, uncertain where to go, with the Shapeshifters close behind, narrowly missing their targets as they contoured the next corner. The duo soon weaved their way through the maze of hallways, following their intuition, only to end up in the repository area once more. Dan used the opportunity to his advantage. Turning around, he hit a Shapeshifter in the shoulder just as he emerged from the corridor. His companion, however, continued to pursue them. They were forced to crouch behind boxes to avoid enemy fire.

"Beam me up! Beam me up!" yelled Spock, evading shots as best as he could. "I swear, Crow, if we make it out of this alive, I'm gonna kill you!"

Dan returned fire when he could manage it, missing due to never having wielded a firearm before. The one he wounded soon joined the fray, clutching his silver-stained shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the third one pop out of another corridor, most likely sent to corner the intruders. Dan and the new arrival exchanged shots. The Shapeshifter ducked out of the way, but a bullet managed to graze Dan's shoulder; he clutched it, wincing from the wound's sting.

The pair was slowly being herded by the trio of Shapeshifters in the corner of the repository. Things weren't looking good at that point. Though two of the First Wave soldiers were injured, the other two were unscathed, and were advancing steadily on their prey. Spock, unarmed, could only scurry along, staying close behind. Their options were narrowing by the second, causing Dan's hopes of escaping alive to dwindle. But so focused was he in keeping the Shapeshifters at bay that he didn't immediately notice the large crash behind him.

"Uh, oh..." said Spock worriedly.

Dan turned around to see Spock standing over a large case, which had toppled over from the tray on which it previously sat. A steady beeping sound rang from inside. Opening it, he extracted a small metallic sphere. Red lights on its circumference flickered in conjunction with the beeping, which was now growing faster and faster. Spock merely stared at it, frozen, eyebrows arched in panic. The Shapeshifters noticed the noise as well, and worry also struck their faces.

"They've got a V-nade!" yelled Carter. "Fall back! Fall back!"

The Shapeshifters began to retreat, the able-bodied helping the wounded ones off the battlefield. Dan's eyes immediately widened at the reveal of the device's true nature. Spock was now juggling it as though it was a hot potato, whining in alarm.

"Crap crap crap crap crap–"

"What are you waiting for, Spock?" yelled Dan. "Throw it!"

Spock complied, chucking the V-nade as far away as he could just the sounds and lights reached their apogee. At the height of its trajectory, the bomb went off; Dan was surprised to see it implode, remaining suspended in midair. For a second, everything fell silent. Then, without warning, the bomb began sucking all the air towards it. Everything in the room started to move towards the implosion point. Lighter objects spiralled upwards into the whirlwind, then heavier objects were uprooted from where they stood, careening into the vortex.

The duo started to slide forward, too, pulled towards the center of the vacuum. They fought against it, resisting the equivalent of an intense gale. But the pull was getting stronger, and the pair fell down and slid across the floor. Spock managed to grab onto a metal beam; Dan held on the man's leg. They clung for dear life as the bomb's pull lifted them off the ground. Anything that wasn't secured was sucked into the center of gravity, crushed and wrecked in the process. Looking back, Dan saw the Shapeshifters struggle to stay grounded, but they couldn't escape; they were swallowed into the mass of whirling objects.

"Hold on, Spock!" bellowed Dan at the top of his lungs.

The bomb's pull was at its apex now; everything was being destroyed by the strength of its grasp. Cracks began to form in the walls and ceiling, while sparks flew from the exploding lights. Dan hugged Spock's legs tightly, closing his eyes, concentrating on keeping his grip despite the weakness in his arms. After several terrifying moments, the wind suddenly died; the pair fell to the ground with a thud, as did the mass created by the bomb, which shattered upon contact with the concrete soil.

They lied flat on the floor for a long time, utterly exhausted. When they finally caught their breaths, they got up, and illuminated the dimmed room with their flashlights. A gargantuan mound of debris sat in the middle of the otherwise spotless repository, out of which trickled small streams of mercury. Without a word, they scaled the wreckage and began the process of retracing their steps. They made their way back up the corridor from whence they entered – where Carter's body was no longer found, having been sucked into the vortex – before emerging into the decommissioned subway tunnel. They followed the passages back to Ex-Tech's basement, using the symbols as their guide. Once returned, they closed and locked the door. Dan returned to the office to return the key in the drawer where he had found it, and when they were sure that nothing seemed too out of place, they exited the building out the back.

"Holy crap," commented Dan as the duo crossed the street.

"Tell me about it," said Spock.

They came to a stop in front of Oldsmobile. Dan was never happier to see the worn vehicle.

"That was without a doubt my successful mission to date," announced Spock.

"It's a good thing I talked you into going further then, right?" remarked Dan.

"Heh, it is, isn't it?" replied Spock, searching for his keys.

At last, he found them. But before continuing, he paused.

"You know," he said, "I'm glad we met, Crow."

"Me too," replied Dan.

Spock smiled as he proceeded to unlock the door. Dan gave a last glance at Ex-Tech, bidding farewell to its inconspicuous exterior. But his smile faded as he spotted something out the corner of his eye.

Down the street, under the light of a streetlamp, stood a peculiar individual.

He donned a sleek suit and a fedora hat. In one hand, he held a briefcase, and was looking in Spock and Crow's direction with a pair of compact binoculars he held in the other. The man, noticing that Dan had spotted him, concealed his specs. He then turned and conceded from the light, disappearing into the shadows.

Spock was about to enter the car when he noticed that Dan was gazing into space.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Dude," replied Dan. "I think I just saw a Man in Black."


	13. Chapter 12: Kings, Bishops, and Pawns

Chapter 12: Kings, Bishops, and Pawns

Night had fallen upon Kings Cemetery. Not a soul was watching, save perhaps those of the dead, whispering silent secrets among themselves in the cold silence of the darkened wood. The suited man began to actualize his incorporeal self, feeling his entire being slowly snapping into place. His form manifested into physical space as the range of possible locations he could occupy narrowed to one.

Once acquainted with his newfound surroundings, September checked his watch. He had arrived a bit later than he would have liked, but he only had himself to blame for that. While the RLTB was effective for covering a large distances, the time it took to change locations was proportional to the distance between the points of departure and arrival; it was more probable that September's location was five feet away than five kilometers, after all.

The coordinates to the rendezvous point showed that it wasn't too far. He paced with purpose to his destination, climbing over a small hill and going down the incline, leading him to a small clearing. As he had expected, October had already arrived; he was sitting on a boulder, observing a caterpillar crawl on the back of his hand with fascination. Seeing September, he placed his hand on the boulder's surface, allowing the insect to go on its merry way.

"You are late," said October.

"Extracting the location took longer than anticipated," explained September.

While September would have had to observer Doctor Bishop anyway to extract the Beacon's location, he would not have been able to interact with him directly due to the Subjects Protocol, and would have had to resort to calibration from afar. His earlier appointment with Walter had breached this Protocol, but with the Non-Interference Protocol lifted, he could justify it by saying direct interaction made extraction of the information more efficient.

That was only if someone ever found out, however. September had shared with no one of the instructions he implanted for the meeting at Kelley's Diner, and so far as he could see, no one ever had to know. He was therefore glad that October chose not to press the matter further, appearing to be preoccupied by his own thoughts.

"Where has the Beacon been hidden?" asked October.

"It in the grave of his father," replied his colleague. "But its signature is being masked by some heavy cloth. We would only be able to sense the resonance if we were to

"I see."

They remained silent for several moments, checking their watches from time to time. Less than thirty minutes remained before the Beacon's departure. Since it was now hidden, all they could do was sit and wait, mulling over their thoughts. September spoke, ending their period of quiet contemplation.

"Are you aware of John Mosley's current location?" he asked.

October's eyes darkened slightly at the mention of Mosley's name.

"By the time I left for the rendezvous point, he was at Harvard University, most likely believing it to be the Beacon's current location."

It was September's turn to experience concern.

"Is it probable that he could ascertain the Beacon's current location from Walter?"

"They have machines capable of reading one's thoughts," explained October. "I followed Mosley as he went to an NWG outpost in Boston to procure himself on. I watched him use it on Colonel Henry Jacobson this morning."

"That is the man from Quantico, is it not?" asked September.

"Yes, I believe it is."

September recalled one of the Beacon's previous appearances, at the Quantico military base in 1987. The whole operation ran smoothly, all things considered; the military scientists kept it safe in their underground laboratories, running various tests on the device for the duration of its stay, curious about its inner workings. Forty-eight hours later, it burrowed back into the ground, leaving the scientists with nothing but frustration and inconclusive results. The only mishap was committed by November, September's partner at the time; having accidentally tripped a security alarm, he caused a commotion and was forced to retreat to a utility closet so as to shift away from the premises.

October interrupted his partner's revelry.

"We should go oversee the Beacon," he said.

October rose from the boulder and set off, September following suit, climbing the hill from whence he came and traversing the forest glade. They soon came upon Robert Bishop's grave, a small, unassuming block of stone which sat placidly among the rows of the fallen. Here, the Beacon's frequency was strong enough to be felt through the soles of their shoes, but not so much that they experienced the discomfort ordinarily associated with its presence.

"I wonder what he was like," said September, analyzing the grave's stone face.

"He was stationed in Sector Beta-2 as a spy for the Americans during the Second World War," said October. "As I recall, he became a Subject during his lifetime. It is probable that someone from the Aube Division would have had this human as an assigned Subject and seen him in action."

At that moment, the Witnesses sensed a sudden change in the air. They shifted focus from the gravestone over to their right; they could perceive the blurred silhouette of a car forming in the distance, the precursor foretelling the imminent arrival of the actual vehicle. Seeing this, the pair retreated out of sight into the cover of the brush. Soon enough, a brown automobile appeared on scene, heralded by the sound of its humming engine. Once it stopped, a man emerged from the driver's side, holding a shovel in his right hand.

John Mosley.

He glanced around furtively, feigning innocence as he proceeded towards the trunk. After opening it, he pointed a flashlight inside.

"Come with me," he said.

Then, to the surprise of the Witnesses, out stumbled a man, wrists bound by rope. He was dazed, moaning groggily; dried blood covered his upper lip.

"The Boy," whispered October.

John Mosley then handed Peter Bishop the shovel and escorted him onwards, climbing over the fence after his hostage. Though the appearance of the Boy was unexpected, September deduced that Walter's memories must have been transmitted to his son via osmosis, a common phenomenon among humans who shared a strong connection. Mosley must have known this as well, and used the mind-reading machine October referenced to determine the Beacon's location.

Peter stumbled forward, Mosley close behind, illuminating surrounding graves with his light as he attempted to find the correct one. When he did, they stopped marching, staring at the stone.

"Shame you never met him," remarked Mosley. He then walked forward, turning to Peter. "Come on," he said, pointing to the mound of dirt behind the grave. "Dig."

Peter reluctantly complied, stomping the shovel's tip into the dirt.

"Careful," warned Mosley.

The Boy continued to dig with bound hands, his captor supervising the affair, keeping a lookout over his obscure surroundings. As Peter dug, the Witnesses planned their next course of action.

"We must eliminate him," whispered October, drawing his weapon.

"We shouldn't act too hastily," said September. "He has the Boy in his custody. You know he must not come to any harm."

"Perhaps. But Mosley is still unaware of our presence. We can strike now before he has the opportunity to react."

October seemed poised to pounce on Mosley at that point, clenching his pistol with a tense arm. But what he said did make sense. September was willing to agree with the plan, to take out Mosley before he realized the extent of the situation. But here were too many variables to consider, too many factors that could lead to potential catastrophe.

"Though the Non-Interference Protocol has been lifted," stated September, "the Omega Protocol still remains in effect. We are not supposed to interact with him."

October eased himself slightly, appearing to acknowledge the fact.

"Besides, the Beacon will depart in mere minutes," continued September. "What can Mosley hope to achieve with so little time left? It would be best if we simply observed this sequence of events from here."

"He is a dangerous one, September," said October. "He has acquired a powerful device unlike any I have seen before."

"What do you mean?"

"He called it a Suppressor. I cannot say how he acquired this technology. It is certainly not of NWG design; it is much too sophisticated. It... Stripped me of my vision, of my capabilities." October shuddered at the thought. "If he possesses the means of doing such a thing, then he may also have the means to deactivate the Beacon's internal clock and esca–"

A sudden wave of discomfort struck the Witnesses. They looked over to see Mosley uncovering the cloth from the Beacon, feeling its smooth surface in his hands with satisfaction.

"We must act now," said October, charging forward.

October stopped in his tracks as a new variable suddenly came into play; September perceived a female's silhouette materializing, one he immediately recognized as Olivia Dunham, one of his assigned Subjects. For a moment, he thought that her appearance would prove to be problematic, complicating their already precarious situation, but seeing her search the darkness of the cemetery grounds, pistol at the ready, he started to see the possible outcomes of the current chain of events narrowing down with her every step, leading to an increasingly probable conclusion.

"The Subjects Protocol is still in effect," said September. "We cannot interfere at this point."

"True," said October, coming to the same realization. "In that case, I will leave her to you."

At that moment, Mosley, seeing Olivia arrive, fled into the woods, carrying the heavy iridium cylinder under one arm and his pulse rifle in his other hand.

"Very well," said September. "Keep watch on Mosley."

The Witnesses then split up, shifting deeper into the woods. Mosley raced down the corridor of trees, struggling to run with the hefty Beacon while Olivia pursued him with determined strides. The Witnesses kept on either side of them, observing the heated chase from afar. At times, Olivia would lose sight of Mosley and look around, uncertain as to where she should go; September, always by her side, would influence the probabilities in effect to nudge in the right direction, and she would then resume her path once again.

_Over here._

So did the pursuit unfold, with Olivia steadily gaining ground. Soon, Mosley was within her line of vision. Noticing she was hot on his heels, he turned around and fired a shot of his rifle, causing a tree to fall over. She ducked, narrowly missing the blast, and returned fire; but Mosley was surprisingly nimble, dodging her shots and continuing down the path, attempting to elude his stubborn huntress.

The chase wore on, and Mosley became increasingly tired, huffing as he ran with the Beacon. He barreled down a small hill and into a large clearing, his limbs feeling heavier by the second. Olivia was close behind, and she shot at him, hitting him in the shoulder. He dropped the Beacon, wincing in pain, and crawled behind a fallen log for cover as she continued to fire. When the opportunity arose, he fired back in a desperate attempt to buy some time. Olivia rolled away from the explosive blast; a flurry of sparks rained down on her.

Mosley made a break for it, limping his way towards the bushes. Olivia, having a clear shot, fired at him; the bullet penetrated his back, and he collapsed onto the ground, dying from the fatal wound. September watched as she approached Mosley's body. He checked his watch, counting down the seconds until the Beacon's departure.

3...2...1...

Lights flashed from the Beacon's spiraling groove, signaling that it was time for it to leave. Olivia, surprised by the onslaught of whizzing sounds, watched the Beacon burrow itself into the ground, revolving at extreme speeds, disappearing into the earth below. Coming closer, she peered down the hole it made, only to see it extend far down into darkness.

It was gone.

A great sense of relief washed over September. The departure occurred without trouble, and the outcome of the Subject Event was successful. After Olivia had left the premises to search for Peter, he called December to inform him of the mission's completion.

"Departure on schedule."

Never had he spoken more satisfying words. He placed the phone in his pocket, taking advantage of his moment of respite. He took a deep breath...

...Only to have his exhalation forcefully wrought from his lungs as someone tackled him from behind. He landed hard on the ground, and both individuals hurried to their feet. To September's great surprise, there stood a very disgruntled Peter Bishop, breathing heavily.

The last time September saw Peter, he was but a child, sleeping in the back of the car, struggling to remain alive. He had grown considerably since then, now a robust man in his thirties. September could see some resemblance to Walter, both having the keen eyes and strong minds characteristic of the Bishop line.

The Witness grew concerned, however, when he started to realize the implications of his encounter. Of all the Subjects, the Overseer deemed the Boy as perhaps the most important – and most dangerous – one, so much so that he had his own protocol, the Omega Protocol. Not only did they have to ensure the Boy's safety, but they were to refrain from interacting with him to any capacity.

Alas, the Protocol was now breached as the Boy stood in front of the Witness. September could perceive a pale glimmer surrounding the man, dulled by living in foreign reality for the majority of his life. September figured it was the peculiar circumstances of the Boy's existence that made the Overseer so interested in him, what with his status as a child of both worlds and his great intellect giving him the potential to either aid or derail the Directive, the Overseer's plan for Collision prevention.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Peter with a menacing tone. "What is the cylinder?"

September remained silent, bound not to divulge unwarranted information to Subjects, least of all this one.

The situation was veering problematic. September hurried to think up possible ways of escape without violating the Omega Protocol any further.

"You know what it is, don't you?"

"You know what it is, don't you?" repeated September.

Puzzlement drew itself on the Boy's face, caught off guard by the suited man's actions.

"Why is it here? Why now? Who _are_ you?"

Peter grew frustrated by September's incessant mimicry. He tried a different approach, testing the bald man's abilities.

"Apples, bananas, rhinoceros! I want to hold your hand!"

September could feel the process of Active Calibration kick in at that point, becoming increasingly aware of the Boy's thought patterns.

"Lucy in the sky with diamonds!" said the Witness ahead of Peter.

September continued to preempt the Boy's questions, but as he did, he became alarmed.

"Do you really know my father? Did you talk to him this afternoon? Are you his friend?"

It appeared that Peter was previously aware of him. September suspected that they must have questioned Walter once he returned among his people. The situation was more problematic than the Witness had previously thought. The Boy wasn't supposed to know of his existence; at least, not at this point. With no other options left to pursue, he drew his Pulse Pistol and directed just enough energy to knock him out.

Looking down on Peter Bishop's unconscious face, he came to agree with the Overseer words.

The Boy was indeed dangerous.

October moved some branches out of the way as he reached September's location.

"Spider webs are most unpleasant," he remarked, wiping his face.

He came to September's side, watching the Boy as he lied in the soft forest soil.

"What happened?" he asked.

"He attacked me from behind. I was forced to subdue him."

"Have you suppressed his memories of the encounter?"

"It would serve no purpose. He was already aware of my existence before the encounter, which means that Olivia Dunham and others may know as well."

With that, they left the Boy behind, entering the forest clearing. As they traversed the uneven landscape, September pondered what consequences would ensue following Peter's discovery of him; he imagined that whatever they were, they most certainly would not bode well.

They soon came upon Mosley's body, which was facing up. Blood soaked his shirt, flowing from the exit wound in his chest, and his rifle was placed to his side.

"He had obtained what he sought," noted October, "only to have lost it in his death. A fitting end."

September looked over to his partner, who gazed at the body. He had the sense that October drew satisfaction from Mosley's demise. October had yet to share details of his encounter with the NWG; perhaps his subjection to the Suppressor was the cause of his apparent enmity toward the man.

"He has failed his mission," said September. "And yet, he appears most pleased." Mosley seemed indeed to be at peace, looking almost as though he was experiencing a pleasant dream. "I suggest we look into his mind and determine what he knows."

"I am not sure that would be wise," countered October. "He is dead. Calibrating with his brain would be a lengthier process, and Olivia Dunham or others may return here at any moment."

There were no temporal precursors visible in the area, but October was correct. To read Mosley's mind, he would have to supply a constant electric current to his body using his internal energy reserves so as to stimulate his neural pathways at minimal levels. And because the brain wouldn't be active, sifting through the knowledge contained therein would be more difficult, unlike for an unconscious or conscious living brain, where activity acts as reference points for cerebral exploration.

As much as he wanted to know Mosley's secrets, it would be too risky to start the intensive procedure when the Fringe Division was bound to show up to the scene sooner or later.

"Agreed," said September in response to October's counsel. "It would best if we left."

With that, they began to walk towards the forest border, deeming it better to shift elsewhere there than out in the open. September was looking forward to leaving the dark forest, satisfied that the troublesome Beacon was dormant once more and would remain that way for many years to come. This mission he had been entrusted with was one of the more eventful ones in his career, and he was pleased that he was able to see it through to completion. But even with the success of the operation, he could not help but worry about what was to come.

Just then, an unnatural gust of wind flew past them, coming from behind. They turned to view the source of the anomalous gale to be greeted by a most unexpected sight.

Where there wasn't anything a second ago, there now stood a man, facing away from the Witnesses; leaves were falling around him, displaced by the whirlwind of his arrival. From the back, all that could be seen was the black longcoat he wore and the rear face of his pale, bald head.

The Witnesses stood frozen in a mixture of great wariness and shock. The man didn't seem to notice their presence; instead, he knelt beside Mosley's nearby body. He checked the man for a pulse, and, finding none, stood to his feet. His head turned to look at the Beacon's exit hole before pulling out a communication device.

"The handler has been killed and the Beacon has departed," said the man in a voice that lacked expression. "It has gone as planned."

Once again, he returned to kneel at Mosley's side. He began searching his pockets; once he found the Suppressor, he took it for himself, sliding it into his longcoat. He removed a different device, this time a metallic case that popped open to form a pair of binoculars, which he peered through to look at Mosley. After a few seconds of observation, collapsed his specs and put them away, only to retrieve his communication module.

"Residual frequency obtained," stated the man into his phone. "Sending it now."

He pressed a sequence of keys before tucking the device away. The figure was apparently going to depart, but something caught his eye out near the edge of the clearing. He turned to see the Witnesses, who were finally able to see the man in all of his splendour.

His black longcoat was unbuttoned, framing the sleek suit and red tie he wore underneath. His left ear was studded, and the edges of a tattoo were creeping up his neck through the left collar.

He was bald and lacking eyebrows.

This entity stood at odds with the Witnesses, tilting his head as he observed them. His grim and focused eyes and tense suggested he was wary, cautious, wondering what move the Witnesses might make, just as they were for him. Moments of mutual analysis passed; then, the man turned around and started to walk away, taking a few steps before disappearing from sight, displacing leaves in a technique that clearly did not rely on the RLTB.

The Witnesses shared a glance, not quite knowing what to say. Questions raced through their mind, faster than they could address them, questions that were all permutations of the same distressing paradox.

If this being was not a Witness, what else could he possibly be?

A precursor crept over the hill, announcing the arrival of Olivia Dunham. There was no time to linger at the scenes and ponder the implications of what they had just witnessed. September and October faced away from each other, closing their eyes. And just before Olivia returned to the glade in search of the Boy, the Witnesses took to the Roads Less Traveled By, wondering just who or what the mysterious man might be.

* * *

_A/N: Well, that's a wrap for PTS I: The Arrival. Be sure to check out PTS II: The Deceived, the next installment of the series, as well as PTS III, which, at the time of writing this message, is almost complete._

_Once again, reviews, comments, questions, and even theories are appreciated. Love and Light, folks! :)_


End file.
